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COMPLETE WORKS 

OF 

ROBERT BURNS; 



ACCOUNT OF HIS LIFE, 

A CRITICISM OK HIS WRITINGS. 

TO WHICH ARE PREFIXED, 

SOME OBSERVATIONS ON THE CHARACTER AND CONDITION 

OF 

THE SCOTTISH PEASANTRY. 
BY JAMES CURRIE, M.D. 



AN ENLARGED AND CORRECTED ,« 5, OSS 



LONDON : 
MILNER AND COMPANY, LIMITED, 

PATEENOSTEE EOW. 



IV DEDICATION 

out effect. The task was beset with considerable difficulties ; and men of esta- 
blished reputation naturally declined an undertaking-, to the performance of 
which it was scarcely to be hoped that general approbation could be obtained, 
by any exertion of judgment or temper. 

To such an office, my place of residence, my accustomed studies, and my 
occupation, were certainly little suited ; but the partiality of Mr Syme though! 
me in other respects not unqualified ; and his solicitations, joined to those of our 
excellent friend and relation Mrs Dunlop, and of other friends of the family of 
the poet, I have not been able to resist. To remove difficulties which would 
otherwise have been insurmountable, Mr Syme and Mr Gilbert Burns made a 
journey to Liverpool, where they explained and arranged the manuscripts, and 
arranged such as seemed worthy of the press. From this visit I derived a de- 
gree of pleasure which has compensated much of my labour. I had the satis 
faction of renewing my personal intercourse with a much valued friend, and 
of forming an acquaintance with a man closely allied to Burns in talents as well 
as in blood, in whose future fortunes the friends of virtue will not, I trust, 
be uninterested. 

The publication of these volumes has been delayed by obstacles which these 
gentlemen could neither remove nor foresee, and which it would be tedious to 
enumerate. At length the task is finished. If the part which I have taken, 
shall serve the interest of the family, and receive the approbation of good men, 
i shall have my recompense. The errors into which I have fallen are not, I 
hope, very important ; and they will be easily. accounted for by those who 
know the circumstances under which this undertaking has been performed. 
Generous minds will receive the posthumous works of Burns with candour, 
and even partiality, as the remains of an unfortunate man of genius, published 
for the benefit of his family, as the stay of the widow, and the hope of the 
fatherless. 

To secure the suffrages of such minds, all topics are omitted in the writings, 
and avoided in the life of Burns, that have a tendency to awaken the animosity 
of party. In perusing the following volumes, no offence will be received, ex- 
cept by those to whom the natural erect aspect of genius is offensive ; characters 
that will scarcely be found among those who are educated to the profession of 
arms. Such men do not court situations of danger, nor tread in the paths of 
glory. They will not be found in your service, which in our own days, emu 
lates on another element, the superior fame of the Macedonian phalanx, or ( f 
the Roman legion, and which has lately made the shores of Europe and of Africa, 
resound with the shouts of victory, from the Texel to the Tagus, and from the 
Tagus to the Nile ! 

The works of Burns will be received favourably by one who stands in the fore- 
most rank of this noble service, and who deserves his station. On the land or on the 
6ea, I know no man more capable of judging of the character or of the writings of 
this original genius. Homer, and Shakspeare, and Ossian, cannot alwavs oc- 



DEDICATION. T 

aupy your leisure. These volumes may sometimes engage your attention, 
while the steady breezes of the tropic swell your sails, and in another quarter 
of the earth, charm you with the strains of nature, or awake in your memory 
the scenes of your early days Suffer me to hope that tliey may sometimes 
recall to your mind the friend who addresses you, and who bids you most affec 
tionately adieu ! 

J. CURRIE. 

Liverpool, 1st May, 1800 



ADVERTISEMENT. 



It is impossible to dismiss this Volume* of the 
Correspondence of our Bard, without some 
anxiety as to the reception it may meet with. 
The experiment we are making has not often 
been tried ; perhaps on no occasion has so 
large a portion of the recent and unpremedita- 
ted effusions of a man of genius been commit- 
ted to the press. 

Of the following letters of Burns, a consid- 
erable number were transmitted for publica- 
tion, by the individuals to whom they were 
addressed ; but very few have been printed 
entire. It will easily be believed, that in a 
series of letters written without the least view 
to publication, various passages were found 
unfit for the press, from different considera- 
tions. It will also be readily supposed, that 
our Poet, writing nearly at the same time, and 
under the same feelings to different individuals, 
would sometimes fall into the same train of 
sentiment and forms of expression. To avoid, 
therefore, the tediousness of such repetitions, 
it has been found necessary to mutilate many 
of the individual letters, and sometimes to ex- 
scind parts of great delicacy — the unbridled ef- 
fusions of panegyric and regard. But though 
many of the letters are printed from originals 
furnished by the persons to whom they were 
addressed, others are printed from first draughts, 
or sketches, found among the papers of our 
Bard. Though in general no man committed 
his thoughts to his correspondents with less 
consideration or effort than Burns, yet it ap- 
pears that in some instances he was dissatisfi- 
ed with his first essays, and wrote out his com- 
munications in a fairer character, or perhaps in 
more studied language. In the chaos of his 
manuscripts, some of the original sketches were 
found ; and as these sketches, though less per- 
fect, are fairly to be considered as the offspring 



* Dr Currie's edition of Burns' Works was origin- 
ally published in four volumes, of which the following 
Correspondence formed the second 



of his mind, where they have seemed in them- 
selves worthy of a place in this volume, we have 
not hesitated to insert them, though they may 
not always correspond exactly with the letters 
transmitted, which have been lost or withheld. 

Our author appears at one time to have, 
formed an intention of making a collection of 
his letters for the amusement of a friend. Ac- 
cordingly he copied an inconsiderable number 
of them into a book, which he presented to 
Robert Riddel, of Glenriddel, Esq. Among 
these was the account of his life, addressed to 
Dr Moore, and printed in the first volume.* In 
copying from his imperfect sketches (it does 
not appear that he had the letters actually sent 
to his correspondents before him) he seems to 
have occasionally enlarged his observations, and 
altered his expressions. In such instances his 
emendations have been adopted ; but in truth 
there are but five of the letters thus selected by 
the poet, to be found in the present volume, 
the rest being thought of inferior merit, or 
otherwise unfit for the public eye. 

In printing this volume, the Editor has 
found some corrections of grammar necessary ; 
but these have been very few, and such as may 
be supposed to occur in the careless effusions, 
even of literary characters, who have not been 
in the habit of carrying their compositions to 
the press. These corrections have never been 
extended to any habitual modes of expression 
of the Poet, even where his phraseology may 
seem to violate the delicacies of taste ; or the 
idiom of our language, which he wrote in gene- 
ral with great accuracy. Some difference will 
indeed be found in this respect in his earlier ai.il 
in his later compositions ; and this volume will 
exhibit the progress of his style, as well as the 
history of his mind. In the Fourth Edition, 
several new letters were introduced, and some 
of inferior importance were omitted. 



CONTENTS. 



PREFATORY REMARKS 

ON THE CHABACTEK AND CONDITION OF Tl 



Effects of the legal establishment of parochial 
Bcliools — of the church establishment — of the 
absence of poor laws— of the Scottish music 
and national songs— of the laws respecting 
marriage and incontinence— Observations on 
the domestic and national attachment of the 
Scots ... ... xvii 

LIFE OF BURNS. 

Narrative of his infancy and youth, by himself— 
Narrative on the same subject by his brother, 
and by Mr Murdoch of London, his teacher — 
Other particulars of Burns while resident in 
Ayrshire— History of Burns while resident in 
Edinburgh, including letters to the Editor 
from Mr Stewart, and Dr Adair — History of 
Burns while on the farm of Ellisland, in Dum- 
fries-shire — History of Burns while resident 
in Dumfries — his last illness — death — and cha- 
racter—with general reflections . . xxvii 

Memoir respecting Burns, by a ludy . . lxxvi 

Criticism on the Works of Burns, including obser- 
vations on poetry in the Scottish dialect, and 
some remarks on Scottish literature . lxxix 

Tributary Verses on the Death of Burns, by Mr 

Roscoe xcvii 

GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 

1. To a Female Friend. Written about the year 

1780. 1 

2. To the same .... . . ib. 

3. To the same 2 

4. To the same ib. 

5. To Mr John Murdoch, 15th Jan. 1783, Burns's 

former teacher ; giving an account of his pre- 
sent studies and temper of mind . . 3 

6. Extracts from MSS. Observations on various 

subjects i 

7. To Mr Aiken, 1786. Written under distress of 

mind 6 

a To Mrs Dunlop. Thanks for her notice. Praise 

of her ancestor, Sir William Wallace . 7 



PAGB 

I. To Mrs Stewart of Stair, enclosing a poem on 
Miss A ib. 

). Dr Blacklock to the Rev. G. Lowrie, encourag- 
ing the Bard to visit Edinburgh, and print a 
new edition of his poems there ... 8 

!. From Sir John Whitefoord . . . . ib. 

! From the Rev. Mr Lowrie, 22d December 1786. 
Advice to the Bard how to conduct himself in 
Edinburgh S 

!. To Mr Chalmers, 27th December 1786. Praise 
of Miss Burnet of Monboddo . . . ib. 

1. To the Earl of Eglinton, Jan. 1787. Thanks for 
Ms patronage ' ib. 

x To Mrs Dunlop, 15th Jan. 1787 Account of 
his situation in Edinburgh .... 10 

5. To Dr Moore, 1787. Grateful acknowledgments 
of Dr M.'s notice of him in his letters to Mrs 
Dunlop . ib. 

r. "From Dr Moore, 23d Jan. 1787. In answer to 
the foregoing, and enclosing a sonnet on the 
Bard, by Miss Williams .... 11 

!. To Dr Moore, 15th February 1787 . . ib. 

). From Dr Moore, 28th February 1787. Sends 
the Bard a present of his " View of Society 
and Manners," &c. ib, 

). To the Earl of Glencairn, 1787. Grateful ac- 
knowledgments of kindness ... 12 

1. To the Earl of Buchan, in reply to a letter of 

advice ib. 

2. Extract concerning the monument erected for 

Ferguson by our Poet 13 

?. To , accompanying the foregoing . . ib. 

1. Extract from , 8th March 1787. Good 

>. To Mrs Dunlop, 22d March 1787. Respecting 
his prospects on leaving Edinburgh . . U 

i. To the same, 15th April 1787. On the same 
subject 15 

r. To Dr Moore, 23d April 1787. On the same 

!. Extract to Mrs Dunlop, 30th ApriL Reply to 
Criticisms j K 

I. To the Rev. Dr Blair, 3d May. Written on 

leaving Edinburgh. Thanks for his kindness 16 

). From Dr Blair, 4th May, in reply to the pre- 
ceding ib 

. From Dr Moore, 23d May 1787. Criticism and 
good advice ... ... 17 






! From Mr John Hutchison 

L To Mr Walker, at Blair of A 
the " Humble Petition of Bru 
Duke of Athole" 

,. To Mr G. Burns, 17th Sept. 
tour through the Highlands 

i. From Mr Ramsay of Ochtertyre, 22d Oetober, 
enclosing- Latin inscriptions, with transla- 
tions, and the tale of Omeron Cameron 

I. From Mr Walker 



n Mr A- 



- M- 



I. Mr Ramsay to the Rev. W. Young, 22d Oct. in- 
troducing our Poet 

I. Mr Ramsay to Dr Biacklock, 27th Oct. Anec- 
dotes of Scottish Songs for our Poet . . i 

L From Mr John Murdoch, in London, 28th Oct 
in answer to No. 5 

. From Mr , Gordon Castle, 31st Oct. 1787, 

acknowledging a 6ong sent to Lady Char- 
lotte Gordon 1 

!. From the Rev. J. Skinner, 1 4th November, 
1787. Some account of Scottish Poems . i 

!. From Mrs , 30th Nov. enclosing Erse 

Songs, with the Music 

i. To Dalrymple, Esq. Congratulation on 

his becoming a poet Praise of Lord Glen- 



>. To Mrs Dunlop, 21st Jan. 1788. 

covery from sickness 
i. Extract to the same, 12th Feb 



Wri 



1788. Defence 



of hin 



elf 



r. To the same, 7th March 17S8. Who had heard 
that he had ridiculed her . . . . i 

i. To Mr Cleghorn, 31st March 1788, mentioning 
his having composed the first stanza of the 
Chevalier's Lament i 

I. From Mr Cleghorn, 27th April, in reply to the 
above. The Chevalier's Lament in full, in a 

I. To Mrs Dunlop, 28th April, giving an account 
of his prospects ' 

.. From the Rev. J. Skinner, 28th April 1788, en- 
closing two songs, one by himself, the other 
by a Buchan ploughman ; the songs printed 
at large i 

!. To Professor D. Stewart, 3d May. Thanks for 
his friendship i 

L Extract to Mrs Dunlop, 4th May. Remarks on 
Dryden's Virgil, and Pope's Odyssey . . i 

i. To the same, 27th May. General Reflections i 

>. To the same, at Mr Dunlop's, Haddington, 13th 
June 1788. Account of his marriage . . i 

i. To Mr P. Hill, with a present of a cheese . i 

r. To Mrs Dunlop, 2d August 1788. With lines 
on a hermitage . . ! 

i. To the same, 10th August Farther account of 
his marriage i 

). To the same, 16th August Reflections on Hu- 
man Life I 

). To R. Graham, Esq. of Fintry. A petition in 
verse for a situation in the Excise . . : 

1. To Mr P. Hill, 1st Oct. 1788. Criticism on a 
poem, entitled, " An Address to Loch-Lo- 



. To Mrs Dunlop, at Moreham Maines, 13th No- 
vember : 

L To •*•*, 8th Nov. Defence of the family of 
the Stuarts. Baseness of insulting- fallen 
greatness . .... I 



64 To Mrs Dunlop, 17th Dec. with the soldier's 
song—" Go fetch to me a pint of wine" . i 

65. To Miss Davies, a young Lady who had heard 

he had been making a ballad on her, enclosing 
that ballad i 

66. To Sir John Whitefoord i 

67. From Mr G. Burns, 1st Jan. 1789. Reflections 

suggested by the day i 

68. To Mrs Dunlop, 1st Jan. Reflections suggested 

by the day i 

69. To Dr Moore, 4th Jan. Account of his situa- 

tion and prospects 1 

70. To Bishop Geddes, 3d February. Account of 

his situation and prospects 

71. From the Rev. P. Carfrae, 2d Janoary 1789. 

Requesting advice as to the publishing Mr 
Mylue's poems i 

72. lo Mrs Dunlop, 4th March. Reflections after a 
visit to Edinburgh > 

73. To the Rev. P. Carfrae, in answer to No 71 . > 
f4. To Dr Moore. Inclosing a poem . . . i 
f5. To Mr Hill. Apostrophe to Frugality . . i 

76. To Mrs Dunlop. With a sketch of an epistle in 
verse to the Right Hon. C. J. Fox . . i 

77. To Mr Cunningham. With the first draught of 
the poem on a Wounded Hare . . . i 

78. From Dr Gregory. Criticism of the poem on a 

Wounded Hare < 

79. To Mr M'Auley of Dumbarton. Account of 



80. To Mrs Dunlop. Reflections on Religion . i 

81. From Dr Moore. Good advice . . i 
From Miss J. Little. A poetess in humble life, 

with a poem in praise of our Bard . . K 

83. From Mr Some account of Ferguson . I 

84. To Mr . In answer . i 

85. To Mrs Dunlop. Praise of Zeluco . . j 

86. From Dr Biacklock. An epistle in verse . i 

87. To Dr Biacklock. Poetical reply to the 

88. To R. Graham, Esq. Inclosing some election- 

eering ballads i 

89. To Mrs Dunlop. Serious and interesting re- 

flections < 

90. To Sir John Sinclair. Account of a book society 

among the farmers in Nithsdale . . I 

91. To Mr Gilbert Burns. With a Prologue spoken 

in the Dumfries Theatre . . . i 

92. To Mrs Dunlop. Some account of Falconer, 

author of the Shipwreck . . . . i 

93. From Mr Cunningham. Inquiries of our Bard ! 

94. To Mr Cunningham. In reply to the above . i 

95. To Mr Hill. Order for books . j 

96. To Mrs Dunlop. Remarks on the Lounger, 

and on the writings of Mr Mackenzie . i 

97. From Mr Cunningham. Account of the death 

of Mrs Monboddo j 

98. To Dr Moore. Thanks for a present of Zeluco i 

99. To Mrs Dunlop. Written under wounded pride 

100. To Mr Cunningham, 8th August Aspirations 

after independence i 

101. From Dr Biacklock, 1st September 1790. Po- 

etical letter of Friendship . . j 

102. Extract from Mr Cunningham, 14th October. 

Suggesting subjects for our Poet's muse 

103. To Mr Dunlop, November 1790. Congratula- 

tions on the birth of her grandson . . j 

104. To Mr Cunningham, 23d Jan. 1791, with an 

elegy on Miss Burnet of Monboddo . . i 



IC5 To Mr Hill, 17th Jan Indignant Apostrophe 

to Poverty ... . . 60 

IOC. From A. F. Tytler, Esq. 12th March. Criti- 
cism on Tarn o' Shanter .... 61 

107. To A. F. Tytler, E-q. in reply to the above . ib. 

103 To Mrs Dunlop, 7th February 1791. Enclos- 
ing his elegy on Miss Burnet . . .62 

209 To Lady \V. M. Constable, acknowledging a 

present of a snuff-box ib. 

110. To Mrs Graham of Fintry, enclosing " Queen 

Mary's Lament" ib. 

111. From the Rev. G. Baird, 8th February 1781, 

requesting assistance in publishing the poems 
of Michael Bruce 63 

112. To the Rev. G. Baird, in reply to the above . ib. 

113. To Dr Moore, 28th February 1791, enclosing 

Tarn o' Shanter, &c. ■ ib. 

114. From Dr Moore, 29th March, with remarks on 

Tarn o' Shanter, Sc 61 

115. To the Rev. A. Alison, 14th Feb. acknow- 

ledging his present of the " Essays on the 
Principles of Taste," with remarks on the 
book 65 

116. To Mr Cunningham, 12th March, with a Ja- 

cobite song, &c. 66 

117. To Mrs Dunlop, 11th April. Comparison be- 

tween female attractions in high and humble 
life ib. 

118. To Mr Cunningham, I'.tli June, requesting his 

interest for an oppressed friend . .67 

119. From the Earl of Buchan, 17th June 1791, in- 

viting over our Bard to the coronation of the 
bust of Thomson on Ednam hill . . . ib. 

120. To the Earl of Buchan, in reply ... 68 

121. From the Earl of Buchan, 16th Sept 1791, pro- 

posing a subject for our Poet's muse . . ib. 

222. To Lady E. Cunningham, enclosing " The La- 
ment for James, Earl of Glencairn" . . ib. 

123. To Mr Ainslie. State of his mind after inebri- 



121. From Sir John Whitefoord, 16th Oct. Thanks 
" The Lament on James, Earl of Glen- 



for " 



,. From A. F. Tytler, Esq. 27th November 1791. 
Criticism on the Whistle and the Lament . ib. 

>. To Miss Davies. Apology for neglecting her 
commands — moral reflections . . .70 

r . To Mrs Dunlop, 17th December, enclosing 
" The song of Death" 71 

!. To Mrs Dunlop, 5th January 1792, acknow- 
ledging the present of a cup . . ib. 

I. To Mr William Smellie, 22d January, intro- 
ducing Mrs Riddel . . . . .72 

i. To Mr W. Nicol, ,20th February. Ironical 
thanks for advice ib. 

. To Mr Cunningham, 3d March 1792. Corn- 
reflections 73 

!. IV Mrs Dunlop, 22d August. Account of his 
meeting with Miss L— — B , and enclos- 
ing a song on her ib. 

I. 1 o Mr Cunningham, 10th Sept. Wild Apos- 
trophe to a Spirit ! 74 

I. 1 o Mrs Dunlop, 24th September. Account of 
his family .75 

> Vo Mrs Dunlop. Letter of condolence under 
affliction 76 

5. To Mrs Dunlop, 6th December 1792, with a 
poem entitled, " The Rights of Woman" . ib. 



3 NTS. IX 

PAOR 

137. To Miss B of York, 21st March 1793. Let- 

ter of friendship 77 

138. To Miss C , August 1793. Character and 

temperament of a poet 78 

139. To John M'Murdo, Esq. December 1793. Re- 

paying money ib. 

140. To Miss B , advising her what play to be- 

speak at the Dumfries Theatre . . .79 

141. To a Lady in favour of a Player's Benefit . ib. 

142. Extract to Mr , 1794. On Ids prospects 

in the Excise ib. 

143. To Mrs R ib. 

144. To the same. Describes his melancholy feelings 80 

145. To the same, lending Werter . . . . ib. 

146. To the same, on a return of interrupted friend. 

147. To the same, on a temporary estrangement . ib. 
14S. To John Syme, Esq. Reflections on the hap- 
piness of Mr O 1 81 

149 To Miss , requesting the return of MSS. 

lent to a deceased friend . . . . ib. 

150. To Mr Cunningham, 25th February, 1794. 

Melancholy reflection — cheering prospects of 
a happier world ib. 

151. To Mrs R . Supposed to be written from 

«• The dead to the living" . . . .82 

152. To Mrs Dunlop, 15th December 1795. Reflec- 

tions on the situation of his family, if he 
should die— praise of the poem entitled " The 
Tax" 83 

153. To the same, in London, 20th December 1795 . 84 

154. To Mrs R , 20th January 1796. Thanks 

for the travels of Anacharsis .... 85 

155. To Mrs Dunlop, 31st January 179a Account 

of the death of his daughter, and of his own 
ill health ib. 

156. To Mrs R , 4th June 1796. Apology for 

not going to the birth-night assembly . . ib. 

157. To Mr Cunningham, 7th July 1796. Account 

of his illness and of his poverty— anticipation 

of his death ib. 

15a To Mrs Burns. Sea-bathing affords little re- 



lief 



POEMS. 

The twa dogs : a tale 

Scotch Drink ! 

The author's earnest cry and prayer to the Scotch 

representatives in the House of Commons . ! 

The Holy Fair ! 

Death and Dr Hornbook 

The Brigs of Ayr 

The ordination 1 

The Calf . . 1 

Address to the Deil i 

The death and dying words of Poor Mallie . , 1 

Poor Mailie's Elegy i 

To J. S*"» 1 

A Dream 1 

The Vision 1 

Address to the Unco Guid, or the Rigidly Righteous 1 

Tam Samson's Elegy i 

HaJioween . 1 

The Auld Farmer's New-year Morning Salutation 

to his Auld Mare Maggie . . . . 1 
To a Mouse . 1 



. 118 



. 123 



PAGE 

A Winter Night .... 

Epistle to Davie, a Brother Poet . 
The Lament ..... 

Despondency : An Ode . . • 

Winter : A Dirge .... 

The Cotter's Saturday Night . 

Man was made to Mourn : A Dirge 

A Prayer in the Prospect of Death . . 124 

Stanzas on the same occasion 125 

Verses left at a Friend's House . . . . ib. 

The First Psalm ib. 

A Prayer 126 

The first six yerses of the Ninetieth Psalm . . ib. 

To a Mountain Daisie ib. 

To Ruin 127 

To Miss L , with Beattie's Poems, for a New- 
Year's Gift ib. 

Epistle to a Young Friend ib. 

On a Scotch Bard gone to the West Indies . . 128 

To a Haggis ib. 

A Dedication to G H , Esq. . . 129 

To a Louse, on seeing one on a Lady's Bonnet at 

Church 130 

Address to Edinburgh 131 

Epistle to J. Lapraik, an old Scottish Bard . . ib. 

To the Same 133 

Epistle to W. S , Ochiltree 131 

Epistle to J. R , enclosing some Poems . . 135 

John Barleycorn : A Ballad 136 

A Fragment, 'When Guildford good our Pilot 

stood,' 137 

Song, ' It was upon a Lammas Night,' . . . ib. 
Song, « Now westlin winds, and slaught'ring guns,' 138 
Song, ' Behind yon hills where Stinchar flows,' . ib. 
Green grow the Rashes : A Fragment . . .139 
Song, * Again rejoicing Nature sees,* . . . ib. 
Song, 'The gloomy Night is gathering fast,' . . 140 
Song, 'From thee, Eliza, I must go,' . . . ib. 
The Farewell, to the Brethren of St James's Lodge, 

Tarbolton .... . ib. 

Song, ' No churchman am I for to rail and to write,' 141 
Written in Friar's Carse Hermitage . . ■ ib. 

Ode to the Memory of Mr3 ■, of . 142 

Elegy on Captain Matthew Henderson . . . ib. 
Lament of Mary Queen of Scots , . . .143 
To Robert Graham, Esq. of Fintra . . . .144 
Lament for James, Earl of Glencairn . . .145 
Lines sent to Sir John Whitefoord, with the forego- 
ing Poem ib. 

Tarn o' Shanter : A Tale ... . ib. 

On seeing a wounded Hare a fellow had Shot at . 147 
Address to the Shade of Thomson . . . .148 
Epitaph on a celebrated Ruling Elder . . . ib. 

on a noisy Polemic ib. 

. . on Wee Johnny ib. 

for the Author's Father . . . . ib. 

. for R. A. Esq ib. 

. for G. H. Esq ib. 

A Bard's Epitaph ib. 

On Captain Grose's Peregrinations . , . .149 

On Miss Cruikshanks ib. 

iong, ' Anna, thy charms my bosom fire,' . . 150 
On the death of John M'Leod, Esq. . . . ib. 

Humble Petition of Bruar Water . . . . ib. 
On Scaring some Water Fowl ... .151 

Written at the Inn in Taymouth . . . . ib. 

at the Fall of Fyer3 159 

On the Birth of a Posthumous Cluld . ib. 

The Whistle ........ ib. 



PAGE 

Second Epistle to Davie, a Brother Poet . . 153 

On my Early Days 1M 

Song, ' In Mauchline there dwells six proper young 

Belles,' it. 

On the death of Sir James Hunter Blair . . ib. 

Written on the black leaf of a copy of the Poems 

presented to an old Sweetheart, then married 15£ 
The Jolly Beggars : A Cantata . . . . ib. 

The Kirk's Alarm : A Satire 159 

The Twa Herds . 160 

The Henpecked Husband 16A 

Elegy on the year 1778 ib. 

Verses written on the Window of the Inn at Carron ib. 
Lines wrote by Burns on his Death-bed . . ib. 
Lines delivered by Burns at a Meeting of the Dum- 
fries-shire Volunteers 162 

A Vision 173 

Address to W. Tytler, Esq ib. 

To a Gentleman who had sent a Newspaper and 



d to 



. 175 



On Pastoral Poetry ib. 

Sketch—New Year's day 176 

On Mr William Smellie 177 

On the Death of Mr Riddel ib. 

Inscription for an Altar to Independence . . ib. 

Monody on a Lady famed for her caprice . . ib. 

Answer to a Surveyor's mandate .... 178 

Impromptu on Mrs 's Birth Day . . . 179 

To Miss Jessy L— ...... ib. 

Extempore to Mr S e ib. 

Dumfries Volunteers 180 

To Mr Mitchell ib. 

To a Gentleman whom he had offended . . . ib. 
On Life, addressed to CoL De Peyster . . . ib. 

Address to the Tooth-ache 181 

To R. Graham, Esq. on receiving a favour . .382 
Epitaph on a Friend ... . ib. 

Grace before Dinner ib. 

On Sensibility, to Mrs Dunlop 183 

On taking leave at a place in the Highlands . . ib. 
Written in Friars-Carse Hermitage, on Nithside . 31 

Epistle to R. Graham, Esq. 33 

On seeing a Wounded Hare 44 

To Dr Blacklock 50 

Prologue 53 

Elegy on the late Miss Burnet of Monboddo . 60 

The Rights of Woman 77 

Address, spoken by Miss Fontenelle . . 83 

INDEX TO THE POETRY, 

IN THE ALPHABETICAL ORDER OP THE FIRST LINES. 

Adieu ! a heart- warm, fond adieu ! . 

Admiring Nature in her wildest grace 

Adown winding Nith I did wander 

Again rejoicing Nature sees . . 

Again the silent wheels of time 

A guid New-year I wish thee, Maggie 

Ah ope, Lord Gregory, thy door . . 

All hail ! inexorable lord 

Among the heathy hills and ragged woods 

Acce mair I hail thee, thou gloomy December 

An' O for ane and twenty, Tam 

An honest man here lies at rest 

Anna, thy charms my bosom fire . 

A rose-bud by my early walk 

As down the burn they took their way 

As I stood by yon roofless tower 



CONTENTS. 



As Mailie an' her lambs thegither . . 
Awa wi' your witchcraft o' beauty's alarms 
A' ye wha live by soups o' drink 
beauteous rose-bud, young and gay 
Behind yon hills where Stinchar flows 
Behold the hour, the boat arrive . . 
Below thir stanes lie Jamie's banes . 
Blythe, blythe, and merry was she . 
Blylhe hae I been on yon hill . . . 
Bonnie wee thing, canuie wee thing 
But lately seen in gladsome green . . 
By Allan stream I chanced to rove . 
By yon castle wa', at the close of the day 
Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy 
Ca 1 the yowes to the knowes . . 
Clarinda, mistress of my soul ... 
Come let me take thee to my breast 1 . 
Contented wi' little, and cantie wi' man- 
Dear S— — , the sleest, paukie thief 
Deluded swain, the pleasure ... 
Does haughty Gaul invasion threat 
Duncau Gray came here to woo 
Dweller in yon dungeon dark . 
Edina I Scotia's darling seat 
Expect na, Sir, in this narration 
Fairest maid on Devon banks . . . 
Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face 
Farewell thou stream that winding flows 
Farewell thou fair day, ye green earth, and yi 
Fate gave the word, the arrow sped 
Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes . 
For lords or kings I dinna mourn . . 
Forlorn, my love, no comfort near . 
Friend of the Poet tried and leal 
From thee, Eliza, I must go 
Gane is the day and mirk's the night 
Go fetch to me a pint o' wine . . . 
Green grow the rashes, O ... 

Guid mornin' to your Majesty 
Had I a cave on some wild distant shore 
Hail, Poesy! thou Nymph reserved 
Ha ! whare ye gaun, ye crowlin ferlie 

Has auld K seen the Deil 

Hear, Land o' Cake3, and brither Scots . 
Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie 

The same altered 

Here Souter in death does sleep 

He who of R— k.n sang, lies stiff and dead 

Here is the glen, and here the bower . 

Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear 

Here where the Scottish Muse immortal lives 

How can my poor heart be glad 

How cold is that bosom which folly once fired 

How cruel are the parents 

How lang and dreary is the night 

How pleasant the banks of the clear.winding I 

Husband, husband, cease your strife 
I call no goddess to inspire my strains 
I gaed a waefu' gate yestreen . 
I gat your letter, winsome Willie 



1 I sing of a whistle, a whistle of worth 
Is there a whim-inspired fool 
Is there, for honest poverty 

is the charming mouth of May . 

is upon a Lammas night . . 
Jockey's ta'en the parting kiss . 

a Anderson my jo, John 
Keen blaws the wind o'er Donnocht-head 
Keu you ought o' Captain Grose 
Kilmarnock wabsters, fidge an' claw 
Kind Sir, I've read your paper through 
Know thou, O stranger to the fame 
Lament in rhyme, lament in prose . 
Lassie wi' the liutwhite lock3 . 
Last May a braw wooer cam down the lang glen 
Late crippled of an arm, and now a leg 
e wander where 1 will 



Letn. 



Ih 



vife o' i 



I lang hae thought, my youthfu' friend , 
I mind it weel, in early date . . 
I'm three times doubly o'er your debtor , 
In Mauchline there dwells six proper young B 
In simmer when the hay was mawu 
Inhuman man I curse on thy barbarous ai 
Instead of a song, boys, I'll give you a to; 



mplai 



Let other poets raise a fracas 

Long, long the night .... 

Loud blaw the frosty breezes 

Louis, what reck I by thee 

Mark yonder pomp of costly fashion 

Maxwell, if merit here you crave 
n the roaring ocean 

My Chloris, mark how grern the groves 
e upon ymr venom'd stang 

My heart is a-breaking, dear Tittie . 

My heart is sair, I darena tell 

My honoured Colonel, deep I feel 

My lord, I know your noble ear . 

My loved, my honour'd, much respected friend 

Nae gentle dames, tho' e'er sae fair 
o churchman am I for to rail and to wt 
o more of your guests, be they titled oi 
o more, ye warblers of the wood, no m 

Now iu her green mantle blythe nature arrays 

Now Nature hangs her mantle green 

Now simmer blinks on flowery braes 

Now spring has clad the grove iu green . 

Now rosy May comes in wi' flowers 

w westliu' winds and slaught'ring guns 
i' ye pious godly flocks .... 

O bonnie was yon rosy brier 

n ye here Uie fight to shun 

O condescend, dear charming maid . 

O Death! thou tyrant fell and bloody 

O gin my love were yon red rose 
ts the wind can blaw 

O had the malt thy strength of mind 

Oh open the door, some pity to show 

O ken ye what Meg o' the Blill has gotten 

O Lassie art thou sleeping yet . . . 

O leeze me on my spinning wheel 

O leeze me on ray wee thing . , . 

Old Winter with his frosty beard 

O Logan, sweetly didst thou glide 

sure in where it darena weel be s( 

O Mary, at thy window be 

O May, thy morn was ne'er sae sweet 

O mirk, mirk is this midnight hour . 
rneikle thinks my love o' my beauty 
my luve's like a red red rose 

Once fondly loved, and still remember'd dear 

O poortith cauld, and restless love . . 

O Philly, happy be that day . . . 

Oppress'd with grief, oppress'd with care 

O rough, rude, ready-witted It 

Orthodox, orthodox, wha believe in John Knox 



CONTENTS. 



O saw ye bonny Lesley .... 

O saw ye my dear, my Phely . 

O stay, sweet warbling woodlark, stay . 

O tell na me o' wind and rain 

O this is no my am lassie .... 

O Tliou dread Tower who reign'st above 

O Thou Great Being, what thou art 

O Thou pale orb, that silent shines, 

O Thou, the first, the greatest friend 

O Thou unknown, Almighty Cause 

O thou! whatever title suit thee 

O Thou who kindly dost provide 

O Tibbie, I hae seen the day . 

O wat ye wha's in yon town 

O wha is she that lo'es me ... 

O were I on Parnassus' hill 

O were my love yon Jilach fair . . 

O whistle and 111 come to you, n 






;i the 



O Wil 



e brew'd a peck o' maut 
O wert thou in the cauld blast . 
O ye wha are sae guid yoursel . 
O ye whose cheek the tear of pity stains 
Racing winds around her blowing . 
Revered defender of beauteous Stuart 
Ri»ht Sir! your text I'll prove it true 
S d thy tale, thou idle page 
Sae flaxen were her ringlets 
Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled 
Sensibility how charming . 
She is a winsome wee thing . . 
She's fair and fause that causes my smart 
Should auld acquaintance be forgot 
Sing on, sweet thrush, upon thy leafless bough 
Sir, as your mandate did request 
Sleep'st thou, or wakest thou, fairest 
Slaw spreads the gloom my soul desires . 
Some books are lies frae end to end . 
Stop, passenger ! my story's brief 
Stay, my charmer, can you leave me 
Stay, my Willie — yet believe me 
Streams that glide in orient plains 
Sweet fa's the eve on Craigie.burn . 
Sweet flow'ret, pledge o' roeikle love 
The Catrine woods were yellow seen 
The day returns, my bosom burns 
The friend whom wild from wisdom's way 
The gloomy night is gath'ring fast 
The hunter lo'es the morning sun 

The lamp of day, with ill-presaging glare 
Their groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign 
reckon 

The lazy mist hangs from the brow of the hill 

The lovely lass o' Inverness 

The man, in life, wherever placed 

The poor man weeps — here G n sleeps 

The simple Bard, rough at the rustic plough 

The small birds rejoice in the green leaves returning 2G 

The smiling spring comes in rejoicing 

The sun had closed the winter day . 

The Thames flows proudly to the sea 

The wind blew hollow frae the hills . 

The wintry west extends his blast . . 

There's auld Rob Morris that wons in you gh 

There's braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes 

There was a lass and she was fair 

There was once a day, but old Time was then young 174 

There was three kings into the east 



. 105 






. 203 



Page 
They snool me sair, and haud me down . 
Thickest night o'erhang my dwelling . 
Thine am I, my faithful fair 
Thine be the volumes, Jessy fair 
This day, Time winds th' exhausted chain 
Thou hast left me ever, Jamie . . . 
Thou of an independent mind . 
Thou sweetest minstrel of the grove 
Thou whom chance may hither lead 
Thou, who thy honour as thy God reverest 
'Tis friendship's pledge, my young fair friend 

to Crochallan came . 

'Twas e'en, the dewy fields were green . xlviii 

'Twas in that place o' Scotland's isle 

True hearted was he the sad swain o* the Yarrow . 196 

Turn again, thou fair Eliza 

'Twas nae her bonnie blue e'e was my ru: 

Upon a simmer Sunday morn 

Upon that night, when fairies light . 

;am na here to view your warks 
Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower 
Wee, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie . . .in 
What can a young lassie, what shall a young lassie 167 
When biting Boreas, fell and doure 
When chapman billies leave the street 

m chill November's surly blast . 
When Death's dark stream I ferry o'er . 
When Guilford good our pilot stood 
When lyart leaves bestrew the yird 
When o'er the hill the eastern star . 
When wild war's deadly blast was blawn 
Where are the joys I hae met in the morning 
The same with an additional stanza 
Where braving angry winter's storms 
Where Cart rins ro win to the sea 
While briers an' woodbines budding green 
While larks with little wing 
While new-ca'd kye rout at the stake 
While virgin spring, by Eden's flood 
While winds frae aff Ben Lomond blaw . 
Whoe'er thou art, O reader, know . 
Why am I loth to leave this earthly scene 
Why, why tell tliy lover .... 
Why, ye tenants of the lake 
Willie Wastle dwalt on Tweed 
Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary . . 
Wilt thou be my dearie .... 

The same 

With musing deep, astonish'd stare . 

Ye banks, and braes, and streams around 
Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon 
Ye Irish tords, ye knights and squires 
Yestreen I got a pint of wine . 



MR THOMSON AND MR BURN& 

1. Mr Thomson to Mr Burns. 1792. Desiring 

the Bard to furnish verses for some of the 
Scottish airs, and to revise former songs . 187 

2. Mr B. to Mr T. Promising assistance . . ib, 

3. Mr T. to Mr B. Sending some tunes . . 183 
i. Mr B. to Mr T. With « The Lee Rig,' and 

• Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary ' . . ib. 
5. Mr B. to Mr T. With « My wife's a winsome 
wee thing,' and ' O saw ye bonny Lesley ' . 190 



CONTENTS. 



X1M 



(5. Mr B. to Mr T \Vith « Highland Mary 

7. Mr T to Mr B. Thanks aud critical observa- 

B Mr B. to Mr T. With an additional stania to 

• The Lee Hig • 

8 Mr B. to Mr T. With « A uld Rob Morris * and 

•Duncan Gray' . .... 

D. Mr B. to Mr T. With « Poortith Cauld,' &c. 

and ' Galla Water * 

I. Mr T. to Mr B. Jan. 1793. Desiring anecdotes 

on the origin of particular Bongs. Tytler of 

Woodhouselee — I'leyel — sends P. Pindar's 

• Lord Gregory.' Postscript from the Hon. 
A. Erskine 

i Mr B. to Mr T. Has' Mr Tytler's anecdotes, 
and means to give his own — sends his own 

• Lord Gregory ' 

!. Mr B. to Mr T. With ' Mary Morrison' 
kMrB. to Mr T. With ' Wandering Willie ' . 
i. Mr B. to Mr T. With ' Open the door to me, 

Oh!' 

i. Mr B. to Mr T. With ■ Jessie ' ... 

[. Mr T. to Mr B. With a list of songs, and 

4 Wandering Wiliie ' altered .... 
I. Mr B. to Mr T. « When wild war's deadly 

blast was blawn,' and ' Meg o' the Mill ' 
i Mr B. to Mr T. Voice of Coila — criticism — 

Origin of ' The Lass o' Patie's Mill' 

l. Mr T. to Mr B 

. Mr B. to Mr T. Simplicity requisite in a song 

— one poet should not mangle the works of 

another 

!. Mr B. to Mr T. « Farewell, thou stream that 

winding flows' — Wishes that the national 

music may preserve its native features 
I. Mr T. to Mr B. Thanks and observations 
, Mr B. to Mr T. With « Blythe hae I been on 

yon hill ' 

>. Mr B. to Mr T. With « O Logan, sweetly didst 

thou glide " — ■ O gin my love were yon red 



,'&c. 



. 202 



i. Mr T. to Mr B. Enclosing a note— Thanks 
r . Mr B. to Mr T. With « There was a lass and 

she was fair ■ 

t. Mr B. to Mr T. Hurt at the idea of pecuniary 

recompense — Remarks on songs 
I. Mr T. to Mr B. Musical expression 
). Mr B. to Mr T. For Mr Clarke 
i. Mr B. to Mr T. With « Phillis the fair ■ . 
I Mr T. to Mr B. Mr Allan— Drawing from 

'John Anderson ray jo ' . . . . 

1. Mr B. to Mr T. With « Had I a cave,' &c. 

Some airs common to Scotland and Ireland . 
I Mr B. to Mr T. Witli ' By Allan stream I 

chanced to rove ' 

> Mr B. to Mr T. With « Whistle and I'll come 

to you, my lad,* and ' Awa wi' your belles 

and your beauties ' 

3. Mr B. to Mr T. With « Come let me take thee 

to my breast ' 

7. Mr B. to Mr T. ' Daintie Davie ' . . . 
i. Mr T. to Mr B. Delighted with the produc- 
tions of Burns'e muse 

9. Mr B, to Mr T. With ' Bruce to his troops at 

Bannock burn 

0. Mr B. to Mr T. With ' Behold the hour, the 



PAaa 

I. Mr T. to Mr B. Observations on « Bruce to his 

troops' 210 

>. Mr B. to iMr T. Remarks on songs in Mr TV 
list — His own method of forming a song— 
' Thou hast left me ever, Jamie ' — * Where ar>> 
the joys I hae met in the morning'— 'Aula 
lang syne ' ib 

I Mr B. to Mr T. With a variation of ' Ban. 
nockburn' 212 

I. Mr T. to Mr B. Thanks and observations . 2l:i 

i. Mr 15. to Mr T. ' On Baimockburn '—send- 

' Fair Jenny ' . ib. 

i. Mr B. to Mr T. With 'Deluded swain, the 

pleasure '—Remarks 2H 

'. Mr B. to Mr T. With ' Thine am I, my faith, 
ful fair 1 — 'O condescend, dear charming 
maid * — ■ The Nightingale ' — ' Laura '—(the 
three last by G. Turnbull) . . .215 

. Mr T. to Mr B. Apprehensions— ThanKS . 216 

. Mr B. to Mr T. With ' Husband, husband, 
cease your strife,' and ' Wilt thou be my 

. Mr T. to Mr B. 1794. Melancholy comparison 
between Burns and Carlini— Mr Allan has 
begun a sketch from the Cottar's Saturday 
Night ,17 

. Mr B. to Mr T. Praise of Mr Allan—' Banks of 
Cree' ib. 

. Mr B. to Blr T. Pleyel in France — « Here 
where the Scottish Muse immortal lives,' 
presented to Miss Graham of Fintry, with a 
copy of Mr Thomson's collection . . . 2)8 

, Mr T. to Mr B. Does not expect to hear from 
Pleyel soon, but desires to be prepared with 
the poetry ib. 

. Mr B. to Mr T. With » On the seas and far away' ib. 

. Mr T. to Mr B. Criticism . . . ' . 219 

■ Mr B. to Mr T. With « Ca' the yowes to the 

. Mr B. to Mr T. With ' She says she loes me 
best of a' '— « O let me fu,' &c— Stanza to Dr 
Maxwell 220 

. Mr T. to Mr B, Advising him to write a Mu. 
sical Drama 221 

. Mr T. to Mr B. Has been examining Scottish 
collections — Ritson — Difficult to obtain an. 
eient melodies in their original state . . ib, 

i. Mr B. to Mr T. Recipe for producing a love- 
song—' Saw ye my Phely ' — Remarks and 
anecdotes — ' How long and dreary is the 
night ' — ' Let not woman e'er complain ' — 
' The lover's morning salute to his mistress 
— « The Auld Man ' — * Keen blaws the wind 
o'er Donnochthead,' in a note . . . .223 

. Mr T. to Mr B. Wishes he knew the inspiring 
Fair One — Ritson's historical essay not inte- 
resting—Allan — Maggie Lauder . . . 221 

!. Mr B. to Mr T. Has begun his Anecdotes, &e. , 
— ' My Chloris mark how green the groves' — 
Love — ' It was the charming month of May * 
— ' Lassie wi' the lint-white locks ' — History 
of the Air ' Ye banks and braes o' bonny 
Doon'— James Miller — Clarke — The black 
keys — Instances of the difficulty of tracing the 
origin of ancient airs ib, 

I. Mr T. to Mr B. With three copies of the Scot- 
tish airs ... £2? 



. Mr B. to Mr T. With ' O Philly, happy be that 

day ' starting note — * Contented \vi* little, 

and cantie wi' raair ' — ' Canst thou leave me 
thus, my Katy '—(The reply, ' Stay my Wil- 
lie—yet believe me,' in a note)— Stock and 

i. Mr T. to Mr B. Praise— Desires more songs of 
the humorous cast— Means to have a picture 
'rem ' The Soldier's Return ' . 

Mr B. to Mr T. With ' My Nannie's awa' 

! Mr B. to Mr T. 1795. With ' For a' that an' 
a' that,' and ' Sweet fa's the eve on Craigie- 
burn' 

. Mr T to Mr I!. Thanks 

Mr B. to Mr T. ' O Lassie, art thou sleeping 

yet,' and the Answer 

Mr B. to Mr T. ' Dispraise of Ecclefechan ' 

. Mr T. to Mr B. Thanks 

Mr B. to Mr T. * Address to the Woodlark •— 
« On Chloris being ill ' — ' Their groves o' 
sweet myrtle,' &c— ' 'Twas na her bonny 

blue e'e,' &c. 

Mr T. to Mr B. With Allan's design from 
• The Cotter's Saturday Night 

. Mr B. to Mr T. With ' Knw cruel are the pa- 
rents,' and ' Mark yonder pomp of costly 
fashion ' 

. Mr B. to Mr T. Thanks for Allan's designs . 

. Mr T. to Mr B. Compliment .... 

. Mr B. to Mr T. With an improvement in 
' Whistle and I'll come to you, my lad — < O 



Pagb 

this is no my ain lassie * — ' Now Spring has 
clad the grove in green'—' O bonnie was yon 
rosie brier ' — * 'Tis Friendship's pledge, my 
young, fair friend ' 234 

I. Mr T. to Mr B. Introducing Dr Brianton . 236 

. Mr B. to Mr T. * Forlorn my love, no comfort 
near' ib. 

. Mr B. to Mr T. ' Last May a braw wooer cam 
down the lang glen ' — ' Why, why tell thy 
lover,' a fragment 237 

. Mr T. to Mr B ib. 

. Mr T. to Mr B. I7U(5. After an awful pause . ib. 

i. Mr B. to Mr T. Thanks for P. Pindar, &c 

1 Hey for a lass wi' a toclier ' ... 238 

i Mr T. to Mr B. Allan has designed some plates 
for an octavo edition ib. 

i. Mr B. to Mr T. Afflicted by sickness, but 
pleased with Mr Allan's etchings . . . ib. 

i. Mr T. to Mr B. Sympathy— encouragement . 239 

. Mr B. to Mr T. With ' Here's a health to ane 
I lo'e dear * ib 

I Mr B. to Mr T. Introducing Mr Lewars — Has 
taken a fancy to review his songs— hopes to 
recover ib 

i. Mr B. to Mr T. Dreading the horrors of a jail, 
solicits the advance of five pounds, and en- 
closes ' Fairest maid on Devon banks ' . . ?14 

i. Mr T. to Mr B. Sympathy— Advises a volume 
of poetry to be published by subscription, 
Pope published the Iliad so . . .lb 



THE LIFE 



ROBERT BURNS; 



A CRITICISM ON HIS WRITINGS. 



) WHICH AKE PRE1 IXED, SOME 



OBSERVATIONS OK THE SCOTTISH PEASANTRY. 



LIFE 



ROBERT BURNS. 



PREFATORY REMARKS. 

Though the dialect, in whicli many of the 
happiest effusions of Robert Burns are com- 
posed, be peculiar to Scotland, yet his reputa- 
tion has extended itself beyond the limits of 
that country, and his poetry has been admired 
as the offspring of original genius, by persons 
of taste, in every part of the sister islands. 
The interest excited by his early death, and 
the distress of his infant family, has been felt 
in a remarkable manner, wherever his writings 
have been known ; and these posthumous 
volumes, which give to the world his Works 
complete, and which, it is hoped, may raise 
his Widow and Children from penury, are 
printed and published in England. It seems 
Droper, therefore, to write the memoirs of his 
life, not with the view of their being read by 
Scotchmen only, but also by natives of Engiand, 
and of other countries where the English 
language is spoken or understood. 

Robert Burns was, in reality, what he has 
been represented to be, a Scottish peasant. 
To render the incidents of his humble story 
generally intelligible, it seems, therefore, ad- 
visable to prefix some observations on the 
character and situation of the order to which 
he belonged — a class of men distinguished by 
many peculiarities : by this means we shall 
form a more correct notion of the advantages 
with which he started, and of the obstacles 
which he surmounted. A few observations 
on the Scottish peasantry will not, perhaps, 
be found unworthy of attention in other re- 
spects : and the subject is, in a great measure, 
new. Scotland has produced persons of high 
distinction in every branch of philosophy and 
literature; and her history, while a separate 
and independent nation, has been successfully 
explored. But the present character of the 
people was not then formed ; the nation then 
presented features similar to those which the 
feudal system and the Catholic religion had 
diffused over Europe, modified, indeed, by the 



peculiar nature of her territory and climate. 
The Reformation, by which such important 
changes were produced on the national charac- 
ter, was speedily followed by the Accession 
of the Scottish monarchs to the English 
throne; and the period which elapsed from 
that Accession to the Union has been rendered 
memorable, chiefly by those bloody convu.- 
sions in which both divisions of the island 
were involved, and which in a considerable 
degree, concealed from the eye of the histo- 
rian the domestic history of the people, and 
the gradual variations in their condition and 
manners. Since the Union, Scotland, though 
the seat of two unsuccessful attempts to re- 
store the House of Stuart to the throne, has 
enjoyed a comparative tranquillity ; and it is 
since this period that the present character of 
her peasantry has been in a great measure 
formed, though the political causes affecting 
it are to be traced to the previous acts of her 
separate legislature. 

A slight acquaintance with the peasantry of 
Scotland will serve to convince an unpre- 
judiced observer, that they possess a degree of 
intelligence not generally found among the 
same class of men in the other countries ot 
Europe. In the very humblest condition of 
the Scottish peasants, every one can read, and 
most persons are more or less skilled in writ- 
ing and arithmetic ; and, under the disguise of 
their uncouth appearance, and of their peculiar 
manners and dialect, a stranger will discover 
that they possess a curiosity, and have obtained 
a degree of information, corresponding to these 
acquirements. 

These advantages they owe to the legal pro- 
vision made by the parliament of Scotland in 
16M5, for the establishment of a school in 
every parish throughout the kingdom, for the 
express purpose of educating the poor ; a law 
which may challenge comparison with any act 
of legislation to be found in the records of 
history, whether we consider the wisdom ot 
the ends in view, the simplicitv of the means 



XV11] 



PREFATORY REMARKS. 



employed, or the provisions made to render 
taese means effectual to their purpose. This 
excellent statute was repealed on the accession 
of Charles II. in 1660, together with all the 
other laws passed during the commonwealth, 
as not heing sanctioned by the royal assent 
It slept during the reigns of Charles and James, 
but was re-enacted precisely in the same terms, 
by the Scottish parliament, after the Revolu- 
tion in 1696 ; and this is the last provision on 
the subject. Its effects on the national charac- 
ter may be considered to have commenced 
about the period of the Union ; and doubtless 
it co-operated with the peace and security 
arising from that happy event, in producing 
the extraordinary change in favour of industry 
and good morals, which the character of the 
common people of Scotland has since under- 
gone.* 



of the legislative provisions respecting it, especially i 
the subject has escaped the notice of all the historians. 



his bishops to deale and travel with the heritors (land 
proprietors,) and the inhabitants of the respective par- 
ishes in their respective dioceses, towards the fixing 
upon " some certain, solid, and sure course" for settling 
and entertaining a school in each parish. This was 
ratified by a statute of Charles I. (the act 1633, chap. 5.) 
which empowered the bishop, with the consent of the 
heritors of a parish, or of a majority of the inhabitants, 
if the heritors refused to attend the meeting, to assess 
every plough of land (that is, every farm, in proportion 
to the number of ploughs upon it) with a certain sum 
for establishing a school. This was an ineffectual pro- 
vision, as depending on the consent and pleasure of the 
heritors and inhabitants. Therefore a new order of 
things was introduced by Stat. 1(546, chap. 17, which 
obliges the heritors and minister of each parish to meet 
and assess the several heritors with the requisite sum 
for building a school-house, and to elect a schoolmaster, 
and modify a salary for him in all time to come. The 
salary is ordered not to be under one hundred, nor 
above two hundred merks, that is, in our preseut ster- 
ling money, not under £5 lis. l±d. nor above £11 2s. 
3d. and the assessment is to be laid on the land in the 
same proportion as it is rated for the support of the 
clergy, and as it regulates the payment of the land-tax. 
But in case the heritors of any parish, or the majority 
of them, should fail to discharge this duty, then the 
persons forming what is ca'led the Committee of Supply 
of the county (consisting of the principal landholders,) 
or any Jive of them, are authorized by the statute to 
impose the assessment instead of them, on the repre- 
sentation of the presbytery in which the parish is situ- 
ated. To secure the choice of a proper teacher, the 
right of election by the heritors, by a statute passed in 
1693, chap. 22, is made subject to the review and control 
of the presbytery of the district, who have the examina- 
tion of the person proposed committed to them, both as 
to his qualifications as a teacher, and as to his proper 
deportment in the office when settled in it The elec- 
tion of the heritors is therefore only a presentment of a 
person for the approbation of the presbytery ; who, if 
they find him unfit, may declare his incapacity, and thus 
oblige them to elect anew. So far is stated on unques- 
tionable authority.* 

The legal salary of the schoolmaster was not incon- 
siderable at the time it was fixed ; but by the decrease 
in the value of money, it is now certainly inadequate to 
its object; and it is painful to observe, that the land- 
holders of Scotland resisted the humble application of 
the schoolmasters to the legislature for its increase, a 
few years ago. The number of parishes m Scotland is 
877; and if we allow the sala.y of a schoolmaster in 
each to be on an average, seven pounds sterling, the 
ginountof the legal provision will be £6,139 sterling. 



• The auUirrtty of A . Praaei Tytler, 






The church-establishment of Scotland hap- 
pily coincides with the institution just men- 
tioned, which may be called its school -esta- 
blishment. The clergyman, being every where 



If we suppose the wages paid by the scholars to amount 
to twice this sum, which is probably beyond the truth, 
the total of the expenses among 1,526,492 persons (the 
whole population of Scotland,) of this most important 
establishment, will be £18,417. But on this, as well as 
on other subjects respecting Scotland, accurate informa- 
tion may soon be expected from Sir John Sinclair'! 
Analysis of his Statistics, which will complete the im- 
mortal monument he has reared to his patriotism. 

The benefit arising in Scotland from the instruction 
of the poor, was soon felt ; and by an act of the British 
parliament, 4 Geo. I. chap. 6, it is enacted, "that of the 
moneys arising from the s; ash estates for- 

feited in the rebellion of 1715, £2,000 sterling shall be 
converted into a capital stock, the interest of which 
shall be laid out in erecting and maintaining schools in 
the Highlands. The Society for propagating Christian 
Knowledge, incorporated in 1709, have applied a large 
part of their fund for the 8ame purpose. By their re. 
port, 1st May, 1795, the annual sum employed by them, 
in supporting their schools in the Highlands and Islands, 
was £3,913 19s. 10d., in which are taught the English 
language, reading and writing, and the principles of 
religion. The schools of the society are additional to 
the legal schools, which, from the great extent of many 
of the Highland parishes, were found insufficient. Be- 
sides these established schools, the lower classes of peo- 
ple in Scotland, where the parishes are large, often 
combine together, and establish private schools of their 
own, at one of which it was that Burns received the 
principal part of his education. So convinced indeed 
are the poor people of Scotland, by experience, of the 
benefit of instruction to their children, that, though 
they may often find it difficult to feed and clothe them, 
some kind of school-instruction they almost always pro- 

The influence of the school-establishment of Scotland 
on the peasantry of that country, seems to have decided 
by experience a question of legislation of the utmost 
importance — whether a system of national instructior 
for the poor be favourable to morals and good govern- 
ment. In the year 1698, Fletcher of Salton declared as 
follows : " There are at this day in Scotland, two hun- 
dred thousand people begging from door to door. And 
though the number of them be perhaps double to what 
it was formerly, by reason of this present great distress 
(a famine then prevailed,) yet in all times there have 
been about one hundred thousand of those vagabonds, 
who have lived without any regard or subjection either 
to the laws of the land, or even those of God and Na- 
ture; fathers ince3tuously accompanying with their 
own daughters, the son with the mother, and the bro- 
ther with the sister." He goes on to say, that no 
magistrate ever could discover that they had ever been 
baptized, or in what way one in a hundred went out of 
the world. He accuses them as frequently guilty of 
robbery, and sometimes of murder : " In years of 
plenty," says he, " many thousands of them meet toge- 
ther in the mountains, where they feast and riot for 
many days; and at country weddings, markets, burials, 
and other public occasions, they are to be seen, both men 
and women, perpetually drunk, cursing, blaspheming, 
and fighting together."* This high-minded statesman, 
of whom it is said by a contemporary " that he would 
lose his life readily to save his country, and would not 
do a base thing to serve it," thought the evil bo great 
that he proposed as a remedy, the revival of domestic 
slavery, according to the practice of his adored republics 
in the classic ages ! A better remedy has been found, 
which in the silent lapse of a century has proved effec- 
tual. The statute of 1696, the noble legacy of the Scot- 
tish Parliament to their country, began soon after this 
to operate ; and happily, as the minds of the poor re- 
ceived instruction, the Union opened new channels of 
industry, and new fields of action to their view. 

At the present day there is perhaps no country its 
Europe, in which, in proportion to its population, so 
small a number of crimes fall under the chastisement oi 
the criminal law, as Scotland. We have the best autho- 
rity for asserting, that on an average of thirty years, 

* Political Works rf Andrew Fletcher, octaro, London, 1731 



PREFATORY REMARKS. 



xix 



resident in his particular parish, becomes the 
natural patron and superintendant of the parish- 
school, and is enabled in various ways to 
promote the comfort of the teacher, and the 
proficiency of the scholars. The teacher 
himself is often a candidate for holy orders, 
■jvbo, during the long course of study and 
probation required in the Scottish church, 
renders the time which can be spared from his 
professional studies, useful to others as well as 
to himself, by assuming the respectable char- 
acter of a schoolmaster. It is common for 
the established schools, even in the country 
parishes of Scotland, to enjoy the means of 
classical instruction ; and many of the farmers, 
and some even of the cottagers, submit to much 
privation, that they may obtain, for one of 
their sons at least, the precarious advantage of 
a learned education. The difficulty to be 
surmounted arises indeed not from the expense 
of instructing their children, but from the 
charge of supporting them. In the country 
parish-schools, the English language, writing, 
and accounts are generally taught at the rate 



preceding the year 1797, the executions in that division 
of the island did not amount to six annually; and one 
qaarter.sessions for the town of Manchester only, has 
sent, according to Mr Hume, more felons to the planta- 
tions, than all the judges of Scotland usually do in the 
space of a year.* It might appear invidious to attempt 
a calculation of the many thousand individuals in Man- 
chester and its vicinity who can neither read nor write. 
A majority of those who suffer the punishment of 
death for their crimes in every part of England are, it 
to believed, in this miserable state of ignorance. 

There is now a legal provision for parochial schools, 
or rather for a school in each of the different townships 
into which the country is divided, in several of the 
northern states of North America. They are, however, 
of recent origin there, excepting in New England, 
where they were established in the last century, pro- 
bably about the same time as in Scotland, and by the 
same religious sect In the Protestant Cantons of 
Switzerland, the peasantry have the advantage of similar 
schools, though established and endowed in a different 
manner. Tins is also the case in certain districts in 
England, particularly in the northern parts of York- 
shire and of Lancashire, and in the counties of West- 
moreland and Cumberland. 

A law, providing for the instruction of the poor, was 
passed by the parliament of Ireland ; but the fund was 
diverted from its purpose, and the measure was entirely 
frustrated. Proh Pudor I 

The similarity of character between the Swiss and the 
Scotch, and between the Scotch and the people of New 
England, can scarcely be overlooked. That it arises in 
a great measure from the similarity of their institutions 
for instruction, cannot be questioned. It is no doubt 
-increased by physical causes. "With a superior degree 
of instruction, each of these nations possesses a country 
that may be said to be sterile, in the neighbourhood of 
countries comparatively rich. Hence emigrations and 
the other effects on conduct and character which such 
circumstances naturally produce. This subject is in a 
high degree curious. I he points of dissimilarity be- 
tween these nations might be traced to their causes also, 
and the whole investigation would perhaps admit of an 
.approach to certainty in our conclusions, to which such 
inquiries seldom lead. How much superior in morals, 
in intellect, and in happiness, the peasantry of those 
parts of England are who have opportunities of instruc- 
tion, to the same class in other situations, those who 
inquire into the subject will speedily discover. The 
peasantry of Westmoreland, and of the other districts 
mentioned above, if their physical and moral qualities 
be taken together, are, in the opinion of the Editor, 
superior to the peasantry of any part of the island. 






ie Laws of Scotland, Iniroduci 



of six shillings, and Latin at the rate of ten or 
twelve shillings, per annum. In the town, the 
prices are somewhat higher. 

It would be improper in this place to inquire 
minutely into the degree of instruction received 
at these seminaries, or to attempt any precise 
estimate of its effects, either on the individuals 
who are the subjects of this instruction, or on 
the community to which they belong. That 
it is on the whole favourable to industry and 
morals, though doubtless with some individual 
exceptions, seems to be proved by the most 
striking and decisive experience ; and it is 
equally clear, that it is the cause of that 
spirit of emigration and of adventure so pre- 
valent among the Scotch. Knowledge has, 
by Lord Verulam, been denominated power; 
by others it has, with less propriety, been 
denominated virtue or happiness : we may 
with confidence consider it as motion. A 
human being, in proportion as he is informed, 
has his wishes enlarged, as well as the means 
of gratifying those wishes. He may be con- 
sidered as taking within the sphere of his 
vision a larger portion of the globe on which 
we tread, and spying advantage at a greater 
distance on its surface. His desires or ambi- 
tion, once excited, are stimulated by his imagi- 
nation ; and distant and uncertain objects, 
giving freer scope to the operation of this 
faculty, often acquire, in the mind of the 
youthful adventurer, an attraction from their 
very distance and uncertainty. If, therefore, 
a greater degree of instruction be given to the 
peasantry of a country comparatively poor, in 
the neighbourhood of other countries rich in 
natural and acquired advantages ; and if the 
barriers be removed that kept them separate, 
emigration from the former to the latter will 
take place to a certain extent, by laws nearly 
as uniform as those by which heat diffuses 
itself among surrounding bodies, or water finds 
its level when left to its natural course. By 
the articles of the Union, the barrier was 
broken down which divided the two British 
nations, and knowledge and poverty poured the 
adventurous natives of the north over the fer- 
tile plains of England, and more especially, 
over the colonies which she had settled in the 
East and in the West. The stream of popu- 
lation continues to flow from the north to the 
south ; for the causes that originally impelled 
it, continue to operate ; and the richer country 
is constantly invigorated by the accession of an 
informed and hardy race of men, educated in 
poverty, and prepared for hardship and danger, 
patient of labour, and prodigal of life. * 



* It has been supposed that Scotland is less populous 
and less improved on account of this emigration ; but 
such conclusions are doubtful, if not wholly fallacious. 
The principle of population acts in no country to the 
full extent of its power: marriage is every where re- 
tarded beyond the period pointed out by nature, by the 
difficulty of supporting a family; and this obstacle is 
greatest in long-settled communities. The emigration 
of a part of a peoplt facilitates the marriage of the rest, 
by producing a relative increase in the means of sut>. 
B2 



XX 



PREFATORY REMARKS. 



The preachers of the Reformation in Scot- 
land were disciples of Calvin, and brought 
with them the temper as well as the tenets of 
that celebrated heresiarch. The presbytenan 
form of worship and of church government 
was endeared to the people, from its being 
established by themselves. It was endeared 
to them, also, by the struggle it had to maintain 
with the Catholic and the Protestant episcopal 
churches, over both of which, after a hundred 
years of fierce, and sometimes bloody conten- 
tion, it finally triumphed, receiving the coun- 
tenance of government, and the sanction of 
.aw. During this long period of contention 
and of suffering, the temper of the people be- 
came more and more obstinate and bigotted ; 
and the nation received that deep tinge of 
fanaticism, which coloured their public tran- 
sactions as well as their private virtues, and of 
which evident traces may be found in our own 
times. When the public schools were esta- 
blished, the instruction communicated in them 
partook of the religious character of the people. 
The Catechism of the Westminster Divines 
was the universal school-book, and was put 
into the hands of the young peasant as soon as 
he had acquired a knowledge of his alphabet ; 
and his first exercises in the art of reading in- 
troduced him to the most mysterious doctrines 
of the Christian faith. This practice is con- 
tinued in our own times. After the Assem- 
bly's Catechism, the Proverbs of Solomon, 
and the New and Old Testament, follow in 
regular succession ; and the scholar departs, 
gifted with the knowledge of the sacred writ- 
ings, and receiving their doctrines according to 
the interpretation of the Westminster Confes- 
sion of Faith. Thus with the instruction of 
infancy in the schools of Scotland, are blended 
the dogmas of the national church ; and hence 
the first and most constant exercise of ingenuity 
among the peasantry of Scotland, is displayed 



sistence. The arguments of Adam Smith, for a frei 
export of corn, are perhaps applicable with less excep- 
tion to the free export of people. The more certain the 
veut, the greater the cultivation of the soil This sub- 
vert has been well investigated by Sir Jame9 Stewart, 
whose principles have been expanded and farther illus- 
trated in a late truly philosophical Essay on Population. 
In fact, Scotland has increased in the number of its in- 
habitants in the last forty years, as the Statistics of Sir 
John Sinclair clearly prove, but not in the ratio that 
home had supposed. The extent of the emigration of 
the Scots may be calculated with some degree of confi. 
deace from the proportionate number of the two sexet 
in Scotland ; a point that may be established pretty ex. 
actly by an examination of the invaluable Statistics 
already mentioned. If we suppose that there is an 
equal number of male and female natives of Scotland, 
alive somewhere or other, the excess by which the fe- 
males exceed the males in their own country, may be 
considered to be equal to the number of Scotchmen liv. 
iug out of Scotland. But though the males born in 
Scotland be admitted to be as 13 to 12, and though somr 
of the females emigrate as well as the males, this modi 
of calculating would probably make the number of ex. 
patriated Scotchmen, at any one time alive, greater 
than the truth. The unhealthy climates into which 
they emigrate, the hazardous services in which so many 
of them engage, render the mean life of those who leave 



in religious disputation. With a strong at 
tachment to the national creed, is conjoined a 
bigotted preference of certain forms of worship ; 
the source of which would be often altogether 
obscure, if we did not recollect that the cere- 
monies of the Scottish Church were framed 
in direct opposition, in every point, to those of 
the Church of Rome. 

The eccentricities of conduct, and singula- 
rities of opinion and manners, which charac- 
terized the English sectaries in the last century, 
afforded a subject for the muse of Butler, 
whose pictures lose their interest, since thei* 
archetypes are lost. Some of the peculiarities 
common among the more rigid disciples of 
Calvinism in Scotland, in the present times, 
have given scope to the ridicule of Burns, 
whose humour is equal to Butler's, and whose 
drawings from living manners are singularly 
expressive and exact. Unfortunately the cor- 
rectness of his taste did not always correspond 
with the strength of his genius ; and hence 
some of the most exquisite of his comic pro- 
ductions are rendered unfit for the light. » 

The information and the religious education 
of the peasantry of Scotland, promote sedate- 
ness of conduct, and habits of thought and 
reflection. — These good qualities are not 
counteracted by the establishment of poor 
laws, which, while they reflect credit on the 
benevolence, detract from the wisdom of the 
English legislature. To make a legal provi- 
sion for the inevitable distress of the poor, who 
by age or disease are rendered incapable of 
labour, may indeed seem an indispensable duty 
of society ; and if, in the execution of a plan 
for this purpose, a distinction could be intro- 
duced, so as to exclude from its benefits those 
whose sufferings are produced by idleness or 
profligacy, such an institution would perhaps 
be as rational as humane. But to lay a general 
tax on property for the support of poverty, - 
from whatever cause proceeding, is a measure 
full of danger. It must operate in a consider- 
able degree as a bounty on idleness, and a duty 
on industry. It takes away from vice and 
indolence the prospect of their most dreaded 
consequences, and from virtue and industry 
their peculiar sanctions. In many cases it 
must render the rise in the price of labour, not 
a blessing, but a curse to the labourer ; who, 
if there be an excess in what he earns beyowf 
his immediate necessities, may be expected ta- 
devote this excess to his present gratification; 
trusting to the provision made by law for hia 
own and his family's support, should disease 
suspend, or death terminate his labours. Hap- 
pily in Scotland, the same legislature which 
established a system of instruction for the 
poor, resisted the introduction of a legal provi- 
sion for the support of poverty ; what they< 
granted on the one hand, and what they re- 



* Holy Willie's Prayer, Rob the Rymer's Welcome 
to his Bastard Child, Epistle to J Gowdie, the Hol« 
Tuliie, &,-. 



PREFATORY REMARKS. 



XXI 



fused on the other, was equally favourable to 
industry and good morals •, and hence it will 
not appear surprising, if the Scottish peasantry 
have a more than usual share of prudence and 
reflection, if they approach nearer than persons 
of their order usually do, to the definition of a 
man, that of " a being that looks before and 
after." These observations must indeed be 
taken with many exceptions : the favourable 
operation of the causes just mentioned is coun- 
teracted by others of an opposite tendency ; 
and the subject, if fully examined, would lead 
to discussions of great extent. 

When the reformation was established in 
Scotland, instrumental music was banished 
from the churches, as savouring too much of 
"profane minstrelsy." Instead of being regu- 
lated by an instrument, the voices of the con- 
gregation are led and directed by a person 
under the name of a precentor ; and the people 
are all expected to join in the tune which he 
chooses for the psalm which is to be sung. 
Church-music is therefore a part of the educa- 
tion of the peasantry of Scotland, in which 
they are usually instructed in the long winter 
nights by the parish schoolmaster, who is 
generally the precentor, or by itinerant teachers 
more celebrated for their powers of voice. 
This branch of education had, in the last reign, 
fallen into some neglect, but was revived about 
thirty or forty years ago, when the music itself 
was reformed and improved. The Scottish 
system of psalmody is however radically bad. 
Destitute of taste or harmony, it forms a 
Btriking contrast with the delicacy and pathos 
of the profane airs. Our poet, it will be 
found, was taught church-music, in which, 
however, he made little proficiency. 

That dancing should also be very generally 
a part of the education of the Scottish pea- 
santry, will surprise those who have only seen 
this description of men ; and still more those 
who reflect on the rigid spirit of Calvinism 
with which the nation is so deeply affected, 
and to which this recreation is so strongly ab- 
horrent. The winter is also the season when 
they acquire dancing, and indeed almost all 
their other instruction. They are taught to 
dance by persons generally of their own number, 
many of whom work at daily labour during 
the summer months. The school is usually a 
barn, and the arena for the performers is gen- 
erally a clay floor. The dome is lighted by 
candles stuck in one end of a cloven stick, the 
other end of which is thrust into the wall. 
Reels, strathspeys, country-dances, and horn- 
pipes, are here practised. The jig, so much 
in favour among the English peasantry, has 
no place among them. The attachment of the 
people of Scotland, of every rank, and parti- 
cularly of the peasantry, to this amusement, 
is very great. After the labours of the day 
are over, young men and women walk many 
miles, in the cold and dreary night of winter, 
to these country dancing-schools ; and the in- 
stant that the violin sounds a Scottish air, 



fatigue seems to vanish, the toil-bent rustia 
becomes erect, his features brighten with sym- 
pathy ; every nerve seems to thrill with sen- 
sation, and every artery to vibrate with life. 
These rustic performers are indeed less to be 
admired for grace, than for agility and anima- 
tion, and their accurate observance of time. 
Their modes of dancing, as well as their tunes, 
are common to every rank in Scotland, and 
are now generally known. In our own day 
they have penetrated into England, and have 
established themselves even in the circle of 
Royalty. In another generation they will be 
naturalized in every part of the island. 

The prevalence of this taste, or rather pas- 
sion for dancing, among a people so deeply 
tinctured with the spirit and doctrines of 
Calvin, is one of those contradictions which 
the philosophic observer so often finds in 
national character and manners. It is proba- 
bly to be ascribed to the Scottish music, which, 
throughout all its varieties, is so full of sensi- 
bility, and which, in its livelier strains, awakes 
those vivid emotions that find in dancing their 
natural solace and relief. 

This triumph of the music of Scotland over 
the spirit of the established religion, has not, 
however, been obtained without long continued 
and obstinate struggles. The numerous sec- 
taries who dissent from the establishment on 
account of the relaxation which they perceive, 
or think they perceive, in the Church, from 
original doctrines and discipline, universally 
condemn the practice of dancing, and the 
schools where it is taught : and the more 
elderly and serious part of the people, of every 
persuasion, tolerate rather than approve these 
meetings of the young of both sexes, where 
dancing is practised to their spirit-stirring 
music, where care is dispelled, toil is forgot- 
ten, and prudence itself is sometimes lulled to 
sleep. 

The Reformation, which proved fatal to the 
rise of the other fine arts in Scotland, proba- 
bly impeded, but could not obstruct, the pro- 
gress of its music ; a circumstance that will 
convince the impartial inquirer, that this music 
not only existed previous to that era, but had 
taken a firm hold of the nation ; thus afford- 
ing a proof o( its antiquity, stronger t*han any 
produced by the researches of our antiquaries. 

The impression which the Scottish music 
has made on the people, is deepened by its 
union with the national songs, of which 
various collections of unequal merit are before 
the public. These songs, like those of other 
nations, are many of them humorous, but they 
chiefly treat of love, war, and drinking. Love 
is the subject of the greater proportion. With- 
out displaying the higher powers of the ima- 
gination, they exhibit a perfect knowledge of 
the human heart, and breathe a spirit of affec- 
tion, and sometimes of delicate and romantic 
tenderness, not to be surpassed in modern 
poetry, and which the more polished s 
of antiquity have seldom possessed. 



XX 11 



PREFATORY REMARKS. 



The ongfn of this amatory character in the 
rustic muse of Scotland, or of the greater 
numher of those love-songs themselves, it 
would be difficult to trace ; they have accumu- 
lated in the silent lapse of time, arid it is now 
perhaps impossible to give an arrangement of 
them in the order of their date, valuable as 
such a record of taste and manners would be. 
Their present influence on the character of 
the nation is, however, great and striking. 
To them we must attribute, in a great measure, 
the romantic passion which so often character- 
izes the attachments of the humblest of the 
people of Scotland, to a degree, that if we 
mistake not, is seldom found in the same rank 
of society in other countries. The pictures 
of love and happiness exhibited in their rural 
songs, are early impressed on the mind of the 
peasant, and are rendered more attractive from 
the music with which they are united. They 
associate themselves with his own youth- 
ful emotions ; they elevate the object as 
well as the nature of his attachment; and 
give to the impressions of sense the beauti- 
ful colours of imagination. Hence in the 
course of his passion, a Scottish peasant often 
exerts a spirit of adventure, of which a 
Spanish cavalier need not be ashamed. 
After the labours of the day are over, he sets 
out for the habitation of his mistress, perhaps 
at many miles distance, regardless of the length 
or the dreariness of the way. He approaches 
her in secrecy, under the disguise of night. A 
signal at the door or window, perhaps agreed 
on, and understood by none but her, gives in- 
formation of his arrival ; and sometimes it is 
repeated again and again, before the capricious 
fair one will obey the summons. But if she 
favours his addresses, she escapes unobserved, 
and receives the vows of her lover under the 
gloom of twilight, or the deeper shade of night. 
Interviews of this kind are the subjects of many 
of the Scottish songs, some of the most beauti- 
ful of which Burns has imitated or improved. 
In the art which they celebrate he was per- 
fectly skilled ; he knew and had practised all 
its mysteries. Intercourse of this sort is in- 
deed universal, even in the humblest condition 
of man, in every region of the earth. But it 
is not unnatural to suppose, that it may exist 
in a greater degree, and in a more romantic 
form, among the peasantry of a country who 
are supposed to be more than commonly in- 
structed ; who find in their rural songs expres- 
sions for their youthful emotions ; and in whom 
the embers of passion are continually fanned 
by the breathings of a music full of tenderness 
and sensibility. The direct influence of physical 
causes on the attachment between the sexes is 
comparatively small, but it is modified by moral 
causes beyond any other affection of the mind. 
Of these, music and poetry are the chief. 
Among the snows of Lapland, and under the 
burning sun of Angola, the savage is seen 
hastening to his mistress, and every where he 



beguiles the weariness of his journey with poetry 
and song.* 

In appreciating the happiness and virtue ol 
a community, there is perhaps no single cri- 
terion on which so much dependence may be 
placed, as the state of the intercourse between 
the sexes. Where this displays ardour of at- 
tachment, accompanied by purity of conduct, 
the character and the influence of women rise 
in society, our imperfect nature mounts on the 
scale of moral excellence, and from the source 
of this single affection, a stream of felicity de- 
scends, which branches into a thousand rivulets 
that enrich and adorn the field of life. Where 
the attachment between the sexes sinks into 
an appetite, the heritage of our species is com- 
paratively poor, and man approaches the con- 
dition of the brutes that perish. " If we could 
with safety indulge the pleasing supposition 
that Fingal lived and that Ossian sung,f 
Scotland, judging from this criterion, might be 
considered as ranking high in happiness and 
virtue in very remote ages. To appreciate 
her situation by the same criterion in our own 
times, would be a delicate and difficult under- 
taking. After considering the probable influ- 
ence of her popular songs and her national 
music, and examining how far the effects to bo 
expected from these are supported by facts, 
the inquirer would also have to examine the 
influence of other causes, and particularly ot 
her civil and ecclesiastical institutions, by 
which the character, and even the manners of 
a people, though silently and slowly, are 
often powerfully controlled. In the point of 
view in which we are considering the subject, 
the ecclesiastical establishments of Scotland 
may be supposed peculiarly favourable to purity 
of conduct. The dissoluteness of manners among 
the Catholic clergy, which preceded, and in 
some measure produced the Reformation, led 
to an extraordinary strictness on the part of 
the reformers, and especially in that particular 
in which the licentiousness of the clergy had 
been carried to its greatest height — the inter- 
course between the sexes. On this point, a» 
on all others connected with austerity of man- 
ners, the disciples of Calvin assumed a greater 
severity than those of the Protestant episco- 
pal church. The punishment of illicit con- 
nexion between the sexes was, throughout all 
Europe, a province which the clergy assumed 
to themselves ; and the church of Scotland, 
which at the Reformation renounced so many 
powers and privileges, at that period took this 
crime under her more especial jurisdiction. \— . 



" The North-American Indians, among- whom the 
attachment between the sexes is said to be weak, and 
love, in the purer sense of the word, unknown, seem 
nearly unacquainted with the charms of poetry and 
music See Weld** Tour. 

f Gibbon. 

| In the punishment of this offence the Church em. 
ployed formerly the arm of the civil powe r. During the 
reign of James the Vlth (James the First of England), 
criminal connexion bttvveen unmarried persons was 



PREFATORY REMARKS. 



Where pregnancy takes place without marriage, 
the condition of the female causes the discovery, 
and it is on her, therefore, in the first instance, 
that the clergy and elders of the church exer- 
cise their zeal. After examination before the 
kirk-session touching the circumstances of her 
guilt, she must endure a public penance, and 
sustain a public rebuke from the pulpit, for 
three Sabbaths successively, in the face of the 
congregation to which she belongs, and thus 
have her weakness exposed, and her shame 
blazoned. The sentence is the same with re- 
spect to the male j but how much lighter the 
punishment ! It is well known that this 
dreadful law, worthy of the iron minds of 
Calvin and of Knox, has often led to conse- 
quences, at the very mention of which human 
nature recoils. 

While the punishment of incontinence pre- 
scribed by the institutions of Scotland, is severe, 
the culprits have an obvious method of avoiding 
it, afforded them by the law respecting marriage, 
the validity of which requires neither the cere- 
monies of the church, nor any other ceremonies, 
but simplythe deliberate acknowledgmentof each 
Other as husband and wife, made by the parties 
before witnesses, or in any other way that gives 
legal evidence of such an acknowledgment having 
taken place. And as the parties themselves fix 
the date of their marriage, an opportunity is 
thus given to avoid the punishment, and repair 
the consequences of illicit gratification. Such 
a degree of laxity respecting so serious a con- 
tract might produce much confusion in the 
descent of property, without a still farther in- 
dulgence ; but the law of Scotland legitimating 
all children born before wedlock, on the sub- 
sequent marriage of their parents, renders the 
actual date of the marriage itself of little con- 
sequence.* Marriages contracted in Scotland 



made the subject of a particular statute (See Hume's 
Commentaries on the Laws of Scotland, Vol. ii. p. 332.) 
which, from its rigour, was never much enforced, and 
which lias lone fallen into disuse. When in the middle 
of the last century, the Puritans succeeded in the over- 
throw of the monarchy in both divisions of the island, 
fornication was a crime against which they directed 
their utmost zeal. It was made punishable with death 
in the Becond instance, (See Blackstone, b. iv. chap. 4. 
No. II.) Happily this sanguinary statute was swept 
away along with the other acts of the Commonwealth, 
on the restoration of Charles II. to whose temper and 
manners it must have been peculiarly abhorrent. And 
after the Revolution, when several salutary acts passed 
during the suspension of the monarchy, were re-enact- 
ed by the Scottish Parliament, particularly that for the 
establishment of parish schools, the statute punishing 
fornication with death, was suffered to sleep in the 
grave of the stern fanatics who had given it birth. 

* The legitimation of children, by subsequent mar. 
riage became the Roman law under the Christian em- 
perors. It was the canon law of modern Europe, and 
lias been established in Scotland from a very remote 
period. Thus a child born a bastard, if his parents af- 
terwards marry, enjoys all the privileges of seniority 
»ver his brothers afterwards born in wedlock. In the 
Parliament of Merton, in the reign of Henry III. the 
English clergy made a vigorous attempt to introduce 
this article into the law of England, and it was on this 
it the Barons made the noted answer, since 



occasion tl 
so often ap. 
tua hue usque u 



without the ceremonies of the church are con- 
sidered as irregular, and the parties usually 
submit to a rebuke for their conduct, in the 
face ol their respective congregations, which 
is not, however, necessary to render the mar- 
riage valid. Burns, whose marriage it will 
appear, was irregular, does not seem to have 
undergone this part of the discipline of the 
church. 

Thus, though the institutions of Scotland 
are in many particulars favourable to a conduct 
among the peasantry founded on foresight and 
reflection, on the subject of marriage the re- 
verse of this is true. Irregular marriages, it 
may be naturally supposed, are often improvi- 
dent ones, in whatever rank of society they 
occur. The children of such marriages, poor 
ly endowed by their parents, find a certain 
degree of instruction of easy acquisition ; but 
the comforts of life, and the gratifications of 
ambition, they find of more difficult attain- 
ment in their native soil ; and thus the mar- 
riage laws of Scotland conspire with other cir- 
cumstances, to produce that habit of emigration, 
and spirit of adventure, for which the people 
are so remarkable. 

The manners and appearance of the Scot- 
tish peasantry do not bespeak to a stranger 
the degree of their cultivation. In their own 
country, their industry is inferior to that ot 
the same description of men in the southern 
division of the island. Industry and the use- 
ful arts reached Scotland later than England ; 
and though their advance has been rapid there, 
the effects produced are as yet far inferior, 
both in reality and in appearance. The Scot- 
tish farmers have in general neither the opu- 
lence nor the comforts of those of England — 
neither vest the same capital in the soil, nor 
receive from it the same return. Their cloth- 
ing, their food, and their habitations, are al- 
most every where inferior)-. Their appear- 
ance in these respects corresponds with the 
appearance of their country; and under the 
operation of patient industry, both are impro- 
"ng. Industry and the useful arts came later 
ito Scotland than into England, because the 
security of property came later. With causes 
of internal agitation and warfare similar to 
those which occurred to the more southern 
nation, the people of Scotland were exposed 
to more imminent hazards, and more extensive 
and destructive spoliation, from external war. 
Occupied in the maintenance of their indepen- 
dence against their more powerful neighbours, 
to this were necessarily sacrificed the aits ot 
peace, and at certain periods, the flower of 
their population. And when the union of the 



to what constitutes a marriage, the law of Scotland, as 
explained above, differs from the Roman law, which 
required the ceremony to be performed in facie ecclexiw. 
■f These remarks are confined to the class of farmers : 
_.ie same corresponding inferiority will not be found 
in the condition of the cottagers and labourers, at 
least in the article of food, as those who examine thi* 
subject impartially vvil) boon discover. 



XXIV 



PREFATORY REMARKS. 



crowns produced a security from national wars 
with England for the century succeeding, the 
civil wars common to both divisions of the 
island, and the dependence, perhaps the neces- 
sary dependence of the Scottish councils on 
those of the more powerful kingdom, coun- 
teracted this advantage. Even the union of 
the British nations was not, from obvious 
causes, immediately followed by all the bene- 
fits which it was ultimately destined to pro- 
duce. At length, however, these benefits are 
distinctly felt, and generally acknowledged. 
Property is secure ; manufactures and com- 
merce increasing, and agriculture is rapidly 
improving in Scotland. As yet, indeed, the 
farmers are not, :n general, enabled to make 
improvements ou* of their own capitals, as in 
England ; but the landholders, who have seen 
and felt the advantages resulting from them, 
contribute towards them with a liberal hand. 
Hence property, as well as population, is ac- 
cumulating rapidly on the Scottish soil ; and 
the nation, enjoying a great part of the bles- 
sings of Englishmen, and retaining several of 
their own happv institutions, might be consi- 
dered, if confidence could be placed in human 
foresight, to be as yet only in an early stage of 
their progress. Yet there are obstructions in 
their way. To the cultivation of the soil are 
opposed the extent and the strictness of the 
entails : to the improvement of the people, the 
rapidly increasing use of spirituous liquors, a 
detestable practice, which includes in its con- 
sequences almost every evii, physical and 
moral.* The peculiarly social disposition of 
the Scottish peasantry exposes them to this 
practice. This disposition, which is fostered 
by their national songs and music, is perhaps 
characteristic of the nation at large. Though 
the source of many pleasures, it counteracts 
by its consequences the effects of their pa- 
tience, industry, and frugality both at home 
and abroad, of which those especially who 
have witnessed the progress of Scotsmen in 
other countries, must have known many strik- 
ing instances. 

Since the Union, the manners and language 
of the people of Scotland have no longer a 
standard among themselves, but are tried by 
the standard of the nation to which they are 
united. — Though their habits are far from being 
flexible, yet it is evident that their manners 
and dialect are undergoing a rapid change. 
Even the farmers of the present day appear 
to have less of the peculiarities of their coun- 
try in their speech, than the men of letters of 
the last generation. Burns, who never left 
the island, nor penetrated farther into Eng- 
land than Carlisle on the one hand, or New- 



* The amount of the duty on spirits distilled in Scot- 
land is now upwards of L.y50,000 annually. Iu 1T77, 
it did not reach Z,.80O0. The rate of the duty has 
indeed been raised, but, making every allowance, the 
increase of consumption must be enormous. This is 
independent of the duty on malt. &c. malt liquor, im- 
ported spirits, and wine. 



castle on the other, had less of the Scottish 
dialect than Hume, who lived for many years 
in the best society of England and France ; or 
perhaps than Robertson, who wrote the En- 
lish language in a style of such purity ; and if 
he had been in other respects fitted to take a 
lead in the British House of Commons, his 
pronunciation would neither have fettered his 
eloquence, nor deprived it of its due effect. 

A striking particular in the character of tne 
Scottish peasantry, is one which it is hoped 
will not be lost — the strength of their domestic 
attachments. The privations to which many 
parents submit for the good of their children, 
and particularly to obtain for them instruction, 
which they consider as the chief good, has 
already been noticed. If their children live 
and prosper, they have their certain reward, 
not merely as witnessing, but as sharing of 
their prosperity. Even in the humblest ranks 
of the peasantry, the earnings of the children 
may generally be considered as at the disposal 
of their parents ; perhaps in no country is so 
large a portion of the wages of labour applied 
to the support and comfort of those whose 
days of labour are past. A similar strength 
of attachment extends through all the domestic 
relations. 

Our poet partook largely of this amiable 
characteristic of his humble compeers ; he 
was also strongly tinctured with another strik- 
ing feature which belongs to them, — a partia- 
lity for his native country, of which many 
proofs may be found in his writings. This, it 
must be confessed, is a very strong and general 
sentiment among the natives of Scotland, dif- 
fering however in its character, according to 
the character of the different minds in which 
it is found ; in some appearing a selfish preju- 
dice, in others a generous affection. 

An attachment to the land of their birth is, 
indeed, common to all men. It is found 
among the inhabitants of every region of the 
earth, from the arctic to the antarctic circle, 
in all the yast variety of climate, of surface, of 
civilization. To analyze this general senti- 
ment, to trace it through the mazes of associa- 
tion up to the primary affection in which it 
has its source, would neither be a difficult nor 
unpleasing labour. On the first consideration 
of the subject, we should perhaps expect to 
find this attachment strong in proportion to 
the physical advantage of the soil: but inquiry, 
far from confirming this supposition, seems 
rather to lead to an opposite conclusion. — In 
those fertile regions where beneficent nature 
yields almost spontaneously whatever is neces- 
sary to human wants, patriotism, as well as 
every other generous sentiment, seems weak 
and languid. In countries less richly endowed, 
where the comforts, and even necessaries of 
life, must be purchased by patient toil, the 
affections of the mind, as the faculties of the 
understanding, improve under exertion, and 
patriotism flourishes amidst its kindred virtues. 
Where it is necessary to combine for i ' 



PREFATORY REMARKS. 



defence, as well as for the supply of common 
wants, mutual good-will springs from mutual 
difficulties and labours, the social affections 
unfold themselves, and extend from the men 
with whom we live, to the soil in which we 
tread. It will perhaps be found, indeed, that 
our affections cannot be originally called forth, 
but by objects capable, or supposed capable, 
of feeling our sentiments, and of returning 
them ; but when once excited they are strength- 
ened by exercise — they are expanded by the 
powers of imagination, and seize more espe- 
cially on those inanimate parts of creation, 
which form the theatre on which we have first 
felt the alternations of joy and sorrow, and 
first tasted the sweets of sympathy and regard. 
If this reasoning be just, the love of our 
country, although modified, and even extin- 
guished in individuals by the chances and 
changes of life, may be presumed, in our 
general reasonings, to be strong among a peo- 
ple, in proportion to their social, and more 
especially to their domestic affections. In free 
governments it is found more active than in 
despotic ones, because, as the individual be- 
comes of more consequence in the community, 
the community becomes of more consequence 
to him ; in small states it is generally more 
active than in large ones, for the same reason, 
and also because the independence of a small 
community being maintained with difficulty, 
and frequently endangered, sentiments of 
patriotism are more frequently excited. In 
mountainous countries it is generally found 
more active than in plains, because there the 
necessities of life often require a closer union 
of the inhabitants ; and more especially because 
in such countries, though less populous than 
plains, the inhabitants, instead of being scat- 
tered equally over the whole, are usually 
divided into small communities on the sides 
of their separate valleys, and on the banks of 
their respective streams : situations well cal- 
culated to call forth and to concentrate the 
social affections amidst scenery that acts most 
powerfully on the sight, and makes a lasting 
impression on the memory. It may also be 
remarked, that mountainous countries are often 
peculiarly calculated to nourish sentiments of 
national pride and independence, from the in- 
fluence of history on the affections of the mind. 
In such countries, from their natural strength, 



inferior nations have maintained their indepen- 
dence against their more power! ul neighbours, 
and valour, in all ages, has made its most suc- 
cessful effort against oppression. Such coun 
tries present the fields of battle, where the 
tide of invasion was rolled back, and where 
the ashes of those rest, who have died in de- 
fence of their nation .' 

The operation of the various causes we have 
mentioned is doubtless more general and more 
permanent, where the scenery of a country, 
the peculiar manners of its inhabitants, and 
the martial achievements of their ancestor 
are embodied in national songs, and united to 
national music. By this combination, the ties 
that attach men to the land of their birth are 
multiplied and strengthened ; and the images of 
infancy strongly associating with the generous 
affections, resist the influence of time, and of 
new impressions ; they often survive in coon- 
tries far distant, and amidst far differeit 
scenes, to the latest periods of life, to sooth 
the heart with the pleasures of memory, when 
those of hope die away. 

If this reasoning be just, it will explain to 
us why, among the natives of Scotland, even 
of cultivated minds, we so generally find a 
partial attachment to the land of their birth, 
and why this is so strongly discoverable in the 
writings of Burns, who joined to the higher 
powers of the understanding the most ardent 
affections. Let not men of reflection think it 
a superfluous labour to trace the rise and pro- 
gress of a character like his. Born in the con- 
dition of a peasant, he rose by the force of his 
mind into distinction and influence, and in his 
works has exhibited what are so rarely found, 
the charms of original genius. With a deep 
insight into the human heart, his poetry ex- 
hibits high powers of imagination — it displays, 
and as it were embalms, the peculiar manners 
of his country ; and it may be considered as a 
monument, not to his own name only, but to 
the expiring genius of an ancient and once in- 
dependent nation. In relating the incidents 
of his life, candour will prevent us from 
dwelling invidiously on those faults and failings 
which justice forbids us to conceal ; we will 
tread lightly over his yet warm ashes, and re- 
spect the laurels that shelter his untimely 
grave. 



LIFE 



ROBERT BURNS. 



Robert Burns was, as is well known, the son 
of a farmer in Ayrshire, and afterwards him- 
self a farmer there; but, having been unsuc- 
cessful, he was about to emigrate to Jamaica. 
He had previously, however, attracted some 
notice by his poetical talents in the vicinity 
where he lived ; and having published a small 
volume of his poems at Kilmarnock, this drew 
upon him more general attention. In conse- 
quence of the encouragement he received, he 
repaired to Edinburgh, and there published, 
by subscription, an improved and enlarged 
edition of his poems, which met with extra- 
ordinary success. By the profits arising from 
the sale of this edition, he was enabled to 
enter on a farm in Dumfries-shire ; and having 
married a person to whom he had been long 
attached, he retired to devote the remainder of 
his life to agriculture. He was again, how- 
ever, unsuccessful ; and, abandoning his farm, 
he removed into the town of Dumfries, where 
he filled an inferior office in the excise, and 
where he terminated his life in July, 1796, in 
his thirty- eighth year. 

The strength and originality of his genius 
procured him the notice of many persons dis- 
tinguished in the republic of letters, and, 
among others, that of Dr Moore, well known 
for his Views of Society and Manners on the 
Continent of Europe, for his Zeluco, and vari- 
ous other works. To this gentleman our 
poet addressed a letter, after his first visit to 
Edinburgh, giving a history of his life, up to 
the period of his writing. In a composition 
never intended to see the light, elegance or 
perfect correctness of composition will not be 
expected. These, however, will be compen- 
sated by the opportunity of seeing our poet, as 
he gives the incidents of his life, unfold the 
peculiarities of his character with all the care- 
less vigour and open sincerity of his mind. 

« SIR, Mauchline, 2d August, 1787. 

• For some months past I have been rambling 



over the country ; but I a 



v confined with 



some lingering complaints, originating, as I 
take it, in the stomach. To divert my spirits 
a little in this miserable fog of ennui, I have 
taken a whim to give you a history of myself. 
My name has made some little noise in this 
country ; you have done me the honour to in- 
terest yourself very warmly in my behalf ; and 
I think a faithful account of what character of 
a man I am, and how I came by that charac- 
ter, may perhaps amuse you in an idle moment, 
I will give you an honest narrative ; though I 
know it will be often at my own expense ; — 
for I assure you, sir, I have, like Solomon, 
whose character, except in the trifling affair 
of wisdom, I sometimes think I resemble, — 
I have, I say, like him, turned my eyes to behold 
madness and folly, and like him, too, frequently 
shaken hands with their intoxicating friendship. 
. . . After you have perused these pages, 
should you think them trifling and impertinent, 
I only beg leave to tell you, that the poor 
author wrote them under some twitching 
qualms of conscience, arising from a suspicion 
that he was doing what he ought not to do ; a 
predicament he has more than once been in 
before. 

" I have not the most distant pretensions to 
assume that character which the pye-coated 
guardians of escutcheons call a Gentleman. 
When at Edinburgh last winter, I got ac- 
quainted in the Herald's Office ; and, looking 
through that granary of honours, I there found 
almost every name in the kingdom; but for 

"My ancient but ignoble blood 
Has crept through scoundrels ever since the 
flood." 

Gules, purpure, argent, &c. quite disowned 
me. 

" My father was of the north of Scotland, 
the son of a farmar, and was thrown by early 
misfortunes on the world at large; where, 
after many years wanderings and sojournings, 
he picked up a pretty large quantity of obser- 



XXV111 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 



vation and experience, to which I am indebt- 
ed for most of my little pretensions to wisdom. 
—I have met with few who understood 
men, their manners, and their ways, equal to 
him ; but stubborn, ungainly integrity, and 
headlong, ungovernable irascibility, are dis- 
qualifying circumstances ; consequently I was 
born a very poor man's son. For the first six 
or seven years of my life, my father was a 
gardener to a worthy gentleman of small estate 
in the neighbourhood of Ayr. Had he con- 
tinued in that station, I must have marched 
off to be one of the little underlings about a 
farm-house ; but it was his dearest wish and 
prayer to have it in his power to keep his 
children under his own eye till they could dis- 
cern between good and evil ; so, with the as- 
sistance of his generous master, my father 
ventured on a small farm on his estate. At 
those years I was by no means a favourite with 
any body. I was a good deal noted for a re- 
tentive memory, a stubborn sturdy something 
in my disposition, and an enthusiastic idiot 
piety. I say idiot piety, because I was then 
but a child. Though it cost the schoolmaster 
some thrashings, I made an excellent English 
scholar ; and by the time I was ten or eleven 
years of age, I was a critic in substantives, 
verbs, and participles. In my infant and 
boyish days, too, I owed much to an old 
woman who resided in the family, remarkable 
for her ignorance, credulity, and superstition. 
She had, I suppose, the largest collection in 
the country ot tales and songs concerning 
devils, ghosts, fairies, brownies, witches, war- 
locks, spunkies, kelpies, elf-candles, dead- 
lights, wraiths, apparitions, cantraips, giants, 
enchanted towers, dragons, and other trum- 
pery. This cultivated the latent seeds of 
poetry ; but had so strong an effect on my 
imagination, that to this hour, in my nocturnal 
rambles, I sometimes keep a sharp look-out 
in suspicious places ; and though no body can 
be more sceptical than I am in such matters, 
yet it often takes an effort of philosophy to 
shake off these idle terrors. The earliest 
composition that I recollect taking pleasure in, 
was The Vision of Mirza, and a hymn of 
Addison's, beginning, How are thy servants 
blest, O Lord! I particularly remember one 
half-stanza which was music to my boyish 



I met with these pieces in Mason's English 
Collection, one of my school-books. The two 
first books I ever read in private, and which 
gave me more pleasure than any two books I 
ever read since, were, The Life of Hannibal, 
and The History of Sir William Wallace. 
Hannibal gave my young ideas such a turn, 
that I used to strut in raptures up and down 
after the recruiting drum and bag-pipe, and 
wish myself tall enough to be a soldier $ while 



the story of Wallace poured a Scottish pre- 
judice into my veins, which will boil along 
there till the flood-gates of life shut in eternal 
rest 

" Polemical divinity about this time was 
putting the country half-mad ; and I, ambitious 
of shining in conversation parties on Sundays, 
between sermons, at funerals, &c. used, a few 
years afterwards, to puzzle Calvinism with so 
much heat and indiscretion, that I raised a 
hue and cry of heresy against me, which has 
not ceased to this hour. 

" My vicinity to Ayr was of some advan- 
tage to me. My social disposition, when 
not checked by some modifications of spirited 
pride, was, like our catechism-definition of 
infinitude, without bounds or limits. I formed 
several connections with other younkers who 
possessed superior advantages, the youngling 
actors, who were busy in the rehearsal of parts 
in which they were shortly to appear on the 
stage of life, where, alas ! I was destined to 
drudge behind the scenes. It is not commonly 
at this green age that our young gentry have 
a just sense of the immense distance between 
them and their ragged play fellows. It takes 
a few dashes into the world, to give the young 
great man that proper, decent, unnoticing dis- 
regard for the poor, insignificant, stupid devils, 
the mechanics and peasantry around him, who 
were perhaps born in the same village. My 
young superiors never insulted the clouterly 
appearance of my plough-boy carcase, the two 
extremes of which were often exposed to all 
the inclemencies of the seasons. They would 
give me stray volumes of books : among them, 
even then, I could pick up some observations ; 
and one, whose heart I am sure not even the 
Munny Begum scenes have tainted, helped me 
to a little French. Parting with these my 
young friends and benefactors, as they occa- 
sionally went off for the East or West Indies, 
was often to me a sore affliction ; but I was 
soon called to more serious evils. My father's 
generous master died ; the farm proved a ruin- 
ous bargain; and, to clench the misfortune, 
we fell into the hands of a factor, who sat 
for the picture I have drawn of one in my 
Tale of Twa Dogs. My father was advanced 
in life when he married ; I was the eldest of 
seven children; and he, worn out by early 
hardships, was unfit for labour. My father's 
spirit was soon irritated, but not easily broken. 
There was a freedom in his lease in two years 
more ; and to weather these two years, we 
retrenched our expenseo. We lived very 
poorly ; I was a dexterous ploughman, for my 
age ; and the next eldest to me was a brother 
(Gilbert) who could drive the plough very 
well, and help me to thrash the corn. A novel- 
writer might perhaps have viewed these scenes 
with some satisfaction ; but so did not I ; my 
indignation yet boils at the recollection of the 

s 1 factor's insolent threatening letter* 

which used to set us all in tears. 

" This kind of life — the cheerless gloom of a 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 



hennit, with the anceasing moil of a galley- 
slave, brought me to my sixteenth year ; a 
little before which period I first committed 
the sin of Rhyme. You know our country 
custom of coupling a man and woman together 
»s partners in the labours of harvest. In my 
fifteenth autumn my partner was a bewitching 
creature a year younger than myself. My scar- 
city of English denies me the power of doing her 
justice in that language ; but you know the Scot- 
tish idiom — she was a bonnie, sweet, sonsie lass. 
In short, she altogether, unwittingly to herself, 
initiated me in that delicious passion, which, 
in spite of acid disappointment, gin-horse pru- 
dence, and book-worm philosophy, I hold to 
be the first of human joys, our dearest blessing 
here below ! How she caught the contagion, 
I cannot tell : you medical people talk much 
of infection from breathing the same air, the 
touch, &c. ; but I never expressly ssid I loved 
her. Indeed, I did not know myself why I lik- 
ed so much to loiter behind with her, when re- 
turning in the evening from our labours ; why 
the tones of her voice made my heart-strings 
thrill like an ^olian harp : and particularly 
why my pulse beat such a furious ratan when 
I looked and fingered over her little hand to 
pick out the cruel nettle-stings and thistles. 
Among her other love-inspiring qualities, she 
sung sweetly ; and it was her favourite reel, to 
which I attempted giving an embodied vehicle 
in rhyme. I was not so presumptuous as to 
imagine that I could make verses like printed 
ones, composed by men who had Greek and 
Latin ; but my girl sung a song, which was 
said to be composed by a small country laird's 
son, on one of his father's maids, with whom 
he was in love ! and I saw no reason why I 
might not rhyme as well as he ; for, excepting 
that he could smear sheep, and cast peats, his 
father living in the moor-lands, he had no more 
scholar- craft than myself.* 



* It may interest some persons to peruse the first 
poetical production of our Bard, and it is therefore ex- 
tracted from a kind of common place book, which he 
seems to have begun in his twentieth year ; and which 
he entitled, " Observations, Hints, Songs. Scraps of 
Poetry, %c. by Robert Burness, a man who had little 
art in making money, and still less in keeping- it ; but 
was, however, a man of some sense, a great deal of ho- 
nesty, and unbounded good- will to every creature, ra- 
tional or irrational. As he was but little indebted to a 
scholastic education, and bred at a plough-tail, his per- 
formances must be stronglytinctured with his unpolished 
rustic way of life ; but as, I believe, they are really his 
own, it may be some entertainment to a curious observ- 
er of human nature, to see how a ploughman thinks and 
feels, under the pressure of love, ambition, anxiety, 
grief, with the like cares and passions, which, however 
diversified by the modes and manners of life, operate 
pretty much alike, I believe, in all the species." 

"Pleasing, when youth is long expire to trace, 
The forms our pencil or our pen desigo'd, 

Such was our youthful air, and shape, and face, 
Such the Softimage of our youthful mind." 



This MS. book, to which our poet prefixed this ac- 
count of himself, and of his intention in preparing it, 
■ral o/ his earlier poems, ~xte as they were 



" Thus with me began love and poetry ; 
which at times have been my only, and till 
within the last twelve months, have been my 
highest enjoyment. My father struggled on 
till he reached the freedom in his lease, when 
he entered on a larger farm, about ten miles 
farther in the country. The nature of the 
bargain he made was such as to throw a little 
ready money into his hands at the commence- 
ment of his lease : otherwise the affair would 
have been impracticable. For four years we 
lived comfortably here ; but a difference com- 
mencing between him and his landlord, as to 
terms, after three years tossing and whirling 
in the vortex of litigation, my father was just 
saved from the horrors of a jail by a consump- 
tion, which, after two years' promises, kindly 
stepped in, and carried him away, to where the 
wicked cease from, troubling, and where the weary 
are at rest. 

" It is during the time that we lived on this 
farm that my little story is most eventful. 1 
was, at the beginning of this period, perhaps 
the most ungainly, awkward boy in the parish 
— no solitaire was less acquainted with the 
ways of the world. What I knew of ancient 
story was gathered from Salmon's and Guthrie's 
geographical grammars ; and the ideas I had 
formed of modern manners, of literature, and 
criticism, I got from the Spectator. These, 
with Pope's Works, some plays of Shakspeare, 



Tune.- 



'Ia: 



n unmarried." 



O, once I lov'd a bonnie lass, 

Ay, and I love her still, 
And whilst that virtue warms my breast, 

I'll love my handsome Nell. 

Tallalderal, 4- 

As bonnie Masses I hae seen, 

And raony full as braw, 
But for a modest gracefu' mien 

The like I never saw. 

A bonnie lass, I will confess, 

Is pleasant to the e'e, 
But without some better qualities 

She's no a lass for me. 

But Nelly's looks are blithe and sweet, 

And what is best of a' 
Her reputation was complete, 

And fair without a flaw. 

She dresses aye sae clean and neat, 

Both decent and genteel ; 
And then there's something in her gait 

Gars ony dress look weel. 

A gaudy dress and gentle air 

May slightly touch the heart, 
But it's innocence and modesty 

That polishes the dart. 

'Tis this in Nelly pleases me, 

'Tis this enchants my soiri ; 
For absolutely in my breast 

She reigns without control. 

Tal tat de ral, #c. 

be confessed that these lines give no indie 



of the future ifenius of duiiio ; u 
have been fond of them, probaMi 
they excited. 



he himself 81 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 



Tull and Dickson on Agriculture, the Pantheon, 
Locke's Essay on the Human Understanding, 
Stackhouse's History of the Bible, Justice's 
British Gardener's Directory, Bayle's Lectures, 
Allan Ramsay's Works, Taylor's Scripture 
Doctrine of Original Sin, A Select Collection 
of English So?igs, and Hervey's Meditations, 
had formed the whole of my reading. The 
collection of songs was my vade mecum. I 
pored over them driving my cart, or walking 
to labour, song by song, verse by verse : care- 
fully noting the true tender, or sublime, 
from affectation and fustian. I am convinced 
I owe to this practice much of my critic craft, 
such as it is. 

" In my seventeenth year, to give my man- 
ners a brush, I went to a country dancing - 
school. — My father had an unaccountable anti- 
pathy against these meetings •, and my going 
was, what to this moment I repent, in opposi- 
tion to his wishes. My father, as I said be- 
fore, was subject to strong passions ; from that 
instance of disobedience in me, he took a sort 
of dislike to me, which I believe was one cause 
of the dissipation which marked my succeed- 
ing years. I say dissipation, comparatively with 
the strictness, and sobriety, and regularity of 
Presbyterian country life ; for though the 
Will-o'- Wisp meteors of thoughtless whim were 
almost the sole lights of my path, yet early 
ingrained piety and virtue kept me for several 
years afterwards within the line of innocence. 
The great misfortune of my life was to want 
an aim. 1 had felt early some stirrings of am- 
bition, but they were the blind gropings of 
Homer's Cyclops round the walls of his cave. 
I saw my father's situation entailed on me per- 
petual labour. The only two openings by 
which I could enter the temple of Fortune, 
was the gate of niggardly economy, or the path 
of little chicaning bargain-making. The first 
is so contracted an aperture, I never could 
squeeze myself into it ; — the last I always 
hated — there was contamination in the very 
entrance ! Thus abandoned of aim or view in 
life, with a strong appetite for sociability, as 
well from native hilarity, as from a pride of 
observation and remark ; a constitutional mel- 
ancholy or hypochondriasm that made me fly 
solitude ; add to these incentives to social life, 
my reputation for bookish knowledge, a cer- 
tain wild logical talent, and a strength of 
thought, something like the rudiments of good 
sense ; and it will not seem surprising that I 
was generally a welcome guest where I visited, 
or any great wonder that, always where two or 
.three met together, there was I among them. 
But far beyond all other impulses of my heart, 
was un penchant a V adorable moitie du genre hu- 
main My heart was completely tinder, and 
was eternally lighted up by some goddess or 
other ; and as in every other warfare in this 
world my fortune was various, sometimes I 
was received with favour, and sometimes I was 
mortified with a repulse. At the plough, 
-.scythe, or rear. -hook, I feared no comoetitor, 



and thus I set absolute want at defiance ; and as 
I never cared farther for my labours than while 
I was in actual exercise, I spent the evenings 
in the way after my own heart. A country 
lad seldom carries on a love adventure without 
an assisting confidant. I possessed a curiosity, 
zeal, and intrepid dexterity, that recommended 
me as a proper second on these occasions ; 
and I dare say, I felt as much pleasure in be- 
ing in the secret of half the loves of the parish 
of Tarbolton, as ever did statesmen in know- 
ing the intrigues of half the courts of Europe. 
— The very goose-feather in my hand seems to 
know instinctively the well-worn path of my 
imagination, the favourite theme of my song ; 
and is with difficulty restrained from giving 
you a couple of paragraphs on the love adven- 
tures of my compeers, the humble inmates of 
the farm-house and cottage ; but the grave sons 
of science, ambition, or avarice, baptize these 
things by the name of follies. To the sons 
and daughters of labour and poverty, they are 
matters of the most serious nature ; to them, 
the ardent hope, the stolen interview, the ten- 
der farewell, are the greatest and most deli- 
cious parts of their enjoyments. 

" Another circumstance in my life which 
made some alteration in my mind and manners, 
was, that I spent my nineteenth summer on a 
smuggling coast, a good distance from home, at 
a noted school, to learn mensuration, survey- 
ing, dialling, &c. in which I made a pretty 
good progress. But I made a greater progress 
in the knowledge of mankind. The contraband 
trade was at that time very successful, and it 
sometimes happened to me to fall in with those 
who carried it on. Scenes of swaggering riot 
and roaring dissipation were till this time new 
to me ; but I was no enemy to social life. 
Here, though I learnt to fill my glass, and to 
mix without fear in a drunken squabble, yet I 
went on with a high hand with my geometry, 
till the sun entered Virgo, a month which is 
always a carnival in my bosom, when a charm- 
ing Jilette who lived next door to the school, 
overset my trigonometry, and set me off at a 
tangent from the sphere of my studies. I, 
however, struggled on with my sines, and co- 
sines, for a few days more ! but stepping into 
the garden one charming noon to take the sun's 
altitude, there I met my angel, 



" It was in vain to think of doing any more 
good at school. The remaining week I staid, 
I did nothing but craze the faculties of my 
soul about her, or steal out to meet her ; and 
the last two nights of my stay in the country, 
had sleep been a mortal sin, the image of this 
modest and innocent girl had kept me guiltless. 

" I returned home very considerably improv- 
ed. My reading was enlarged with the very 
important addition of Thomson's and Shen- 
stone's Works ; I had seen human nature in a 



LIFE OF ROBERT RURJNS. 



XXXI 



new phasis; and I engaged several of my 
school-fellows to keep up a literary correspon- 
dence with me. This improved me in compo- 
sition. I had met with a collection of letters 
by the wits of Queen Anne's reign, and I 
pored over them most devoutly ; I kept copies 
of any of my own letters that pleased me ; and 
a comparison between them and the composi- 
tion of most of my correspondents flattered my 
vanity. I carried this whim so far, that 
though I had not three farthings worth of busi- 
ness in the world, yet almost every post 
brought me as many letters as if I had been a 
broad plodding son of day-book and ledger. 

" My life flowed on much in the same course 
till my twenty- third year. Vive V amour, et 
vive la bagatelle, were my'sole principles of ac- 
tion. The addition of two more authors to 
my library gave me great pleasure ; Sterne 
and M'Kenzie— Tristram Shandy and The 
Man of Feeling — were my bosom favourites. 
Poesy was still a darling walk for my mind ; 
but it was only indulged in according to the 
humour of the hour. I had usually half a 
dozen or more pieces on hand ; I took up one 
or other, as it suited the momentary tone of 
the mind, and dismissed the work as it border- 
ed on fatigue. My passions, when once lighted 
up, raged like so many devils, till they got vent 
in rhyme ; and then the conning over my verses, 
like a spell, soothed all into quiet ! None of 
the rhymes of those days are in print, except 
Winter, a Dirge, the eldest of my printed 
pieces ; The Death of Poor Mailie, John Bar- 
leycorn, and Songs, first, second, and third. 
Song second was the ebullition of that passion 
which ended the forementioned school busi- 
ness. 

" My twenty-third year was to me an im- 
portant era. Partly through whim, and partly 
that I wished to set about doing something in 
life, I joined a flax-dresser in a neighbouring 
town (Irvine) to learn his trade. This was 

an unlucky affair. My ; and, to 

finish the whole, as we were giving a welcom- 
ing carousal to the new year, the shop took 
fire, and burnt to ashes ; and I was left like a 
true poet, not worth a sixpence. 

" I was obliged to give up this scheme : the 
clouds of misfortune were gathering thick 
round my father's head ; and what was worst 
of all, he was visibly far gone in a consump- 
tion ; and to crown my distresses, a belle fdie 
whom I adored, and who had pledged her soul 
to meet me in the field of matrimony, jilted 
me, with peculiar circumstances of mortifica- 
tion. The finishing evil that brought up the 
rear of this infernal file, was, my constitutional 
melancholy being increased to such a degree, 
that for three months I was in a state of mind 
scarcely to be envied by the hopeless wretches 
who have got their mittimus— Depart from me, 
ye accursed! 

" From this adventure, I learned something 
of a town life ; but the principal thing which 
gave my mind a turn, was a friendship I form- 



ed with a young fellow, a very noble character 
but a hapless son of misfortune. He was the 
son of a simple mechanic ; but a great man in 
the neighbourhood taking him under his patron- 
age gave him a genteel education, with a view 
of bettering his situation in life. The patron 
dying just as he was ready to launch out into 
the world, the poor fellow in despair went to 
sea ; where after a variety of good and ill for- 
tune, a little before Iwas acquainted with him, he 
had been set ashore by an American privateer, 
on the wild coast of Connaught, stripped of 
every thing. I cannot quit this poor fellow's 
story, without adding, that he is at this time 
master of a large West Indiaman belonging 
to the Thames. 

" His mind was fraught with independence, 
magnanimity, and every manly virtue. I loved 
and admired him to a degree of enthusiasm, 
and of course strove to imitate him. In some 
measure, I succeeded ; I had pride before, but 
he taught it to flow in proper channels. His 
knowledge of the world was vastly superior 
to mine, and I was all attention to learn. He 
was the only man I ever saw, who was a 
greater fool than myself, where woman was 
the presiding star ; but he spoke of illicit love 
with the levity of a sailor, which hitherto I 
had regarded with horror Here his friend- 
ship did me a mischief ; and the consequence 
was that soon after I resumed the plough, I 
wrote the Poet's Welcome. * My reading only 
increased, while in this town, by two stray 
volumes of Pamela and one of Ferdinand 
Count Fathom, which gave me some idea of 
novels. Rhyme, except some religious pieces 
that are in print, I had given up ; but meet- 
ing with Ferguson s Scottish Poems, I strung 
anew my wildly-sounding lyre with emulating 
vigour. When my father died, his all went 
among the hell-hounds that growl in the ken- 
nel of justice ; but we made a shift to collect 
a little money in the family amongst us, with 
which, to keep us together, my brother and I 
took a neighbouring farm. My brother want- 
ed my hair-brained imagination, as well as my 
social and amorous madness : but in good 
sense, and every sober qualification, he was far 
my superior. 

" I entered on this farm with a full resolu- 
tion, Come, go to, I will be wise ! I read farm- 
ing books ; I calculated crops ; I attended 
markets ; and in short, in spite of the devil, 
and the world, and the flesh, I believe, I should 
have been a wise man, but the first year from 
unfortunately buying bad seed, the second, 
from a late harvest, we lost half our crops. 
This overset all my wisdom, and I returned, 
like the dog to his vomit, and the sow that 'Mas 
washed to her wallowing in the nitre, j- 



. _ purpose (expressed in the first page) of making 
memorandums upon it. These farming memorandums 
are curioui enough ; many of them have been written 



xxxu 

" I now began to be known in the neigh- 
bourhood as a maker of rhymes. The first of 
my poetic offspring that saw the light, was a 
burlesque lamentation on a quarrel between 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 



with a pencil, and are now obliterated, or at least illegible. 
A considerable number are however legible, and a spe- 
cimen may gratify the reader. It must be premised, 
that the poet kept the book by him several years— that 
he wrote upon it here and there, with the utmost irre- 
gularity, and that on the same page are notations very 
distant from each other as to time and place. 



EXTEMPORE. April, 17S2. 

why the deuce should I repine, 
And be an ill foreboder ? 

I'm twenty-three, and five feet nine — 
I'll go and be a sodger. 

1 gat some gear with meikle care, 

I held it weel thegither ; 
But now its gane, and something mair, 
I'll go and be a sodger. 



FRAGMENT. Tune— « Donald Blue.' 

O leave novels, ye Mauchline belles, 
Ye're safer at your spinning wheel ; 

Such witching books are baited hooks, 
For rakish rooks like Rob Mossgiel. 

Sing tal, lal, lay, <§r 

Your fine Tom Jones and Grandisons, 
They make your youthful fancies reel, 

They heat your brains, and fire your veins, 
And then you're prey for Rob Mossgiel. 

Beware a tongue that's smoothly hung ; 

A heart that warmly seeks to feel; 
That feeling heart but acts a part, 

'Tis rakish art in Rob Mossgiel. 

The frank address, the soft caress, 
Are worse than puison'd darts of steel, 

The frank address, and politesse, 
Are all finesse in Rob MosFgiel. 



Mem. — To get for Mr Johnston these two Songs : 
'Molly, Molly, my dear honey.' — ' The cock and tin 
hen, the deer in her den\ &c. 



Ah! Chloris! Sir Peter Halket of Pitferran, the 
author. — Note, He married her— the heiress of Pitferran. 

Colonel George Crawford, the author of Down the 
Burn Davy. 

Pinlcey house, by J. MitchelL 

My apt an Deary ! and Amynta, by Sir G. Elliot 

Willie was a wanton Wag, was made on Walkinshaw 
of Walkinshaw, near Paisley. 

/ lo'e na a laddie but ane, Mr Clunzee. 

The bonnie wee thing — beautiful— Lundie's Dream — 
very beautiful. 

He till't and she tiWt—assez bien. 

Armstrong^ Farewell— hue. 

The Author of the Highland Queen was a Mr M'lver, 
purser of the Solbay. 



e author of The Bush aboon Traquair w;i 

Polwart on the Green, composed by Captai 
Drummond M'Gregor, of Boehaldie. 

Mem — To inquire if Mr Cixkburn wa? the an 
I fta'e leen the smiling &c 



i Di 



two reverend Calvinists, both of them dramatu 
■persona in my Holy Fair. I had a notion 
myself, that the piece had some merit ; but to 
prevent the worst, I gave a copy of it to a 
friend who was very fond of such things, and 
told him that I could not guess who was the 
author of it, but that I thought it pretty clever. 
With a certain description of the clergy, as 
well as laity, it met with a roar of applause. 
Holy Willie's Prayer next made its appearance, 
and alarmed the kirk-session so much, that 
they held several meetings to look over their 
spiritual artillery, if haply any of it might be 
pointed against profane rhymers. Unluckily 
for me, my wanderings led me on another side, 
within point blank shot of their heaviest metal. 
This is the unfortunate story that gave rise to 
my printed poem, The Lament. This was a 
most melancholy affair, which I cannot yet 
bear to reflect on, and had very nearly given 
me one or two of the principal qualifications 
for a place among those who have lost the 
chart, and mistaken the reckoning of Ration- 
ality.* I gave up my part of the farm to my 
brother; in truth it was only nominally mine; 
and made what little preparation was in my 
power for Jamaica. But, before leaving my 
native country for ever, I resolved to publish 
my poems. I weighed my productions as im- 
partially as was in my power : I thought they 
had merit •, and it was a delicious idea that I 
should be called a clever fellow, even though 
it should never reach my ears — a poor negro- 
driver, — or perhaps a victim to that inhospita- 
ble clime, and gone to the world of spirits ! 
I can truly say, that pauvre inconnu as I then 
was, I had pretty nearly as high an idea of 
myself and of my works as I have at this mo- 
ment, when the public has decided in their 
favour. It ever was my opinion, that the 
mistakes and blunders, both in a rational and 
religious point of view, of which we see thou- 
sands daily guilty, are owing to their ignorance 
of themselves. — To know myself, had been 
all along my constant study. I weighed my- 
self alone ; I balanced myself with others : I 
watched every means of information, to see 
how much ground I occupied as a man and as 
a poet: I studied assiduously nature's design 
in my formation — where the lights and shades 
in my character were intended. I was pretty 
confident my poems would meet with some 
applause : but, at the worst, the roar of the 
Atlantic would deafen the voice of censure, 
and the novelty of West Indian scenes make 
me forget neglect. I threw off six hundred 
copies, of which I had got subscriptions for 

about three hundred and fifty My vanity was 

highly gratified by the reception I met with 
from the public ; and besides I pocketed, aS 



The above may serve as a specimen. All Hie not) 
m farming are obliterated. 

* An explanation of this will be found hereafter. 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 



xxxm 



expenses deducted, nearly twenty pounds. 
This sum came very seasonably, as I was 
thinking of indenting myself, for want of 
money to procure my passage. As soon as I 
was master of nine guineas, the price of waft- 
ing me to the torrid zone, I took a steerage 
passage in the first ship that was to sail from 
the Clyde ; for 



■'llu; 



u iiad me in the wind." 



" I had been for some days skulking from 
covert to covert, under all the terrors of a jail ; 
as some ill-advised people had uncoupled the 
merciless pack of the law at my heels. I had 
taken the last farewell of my few friends ; my 
chest was on the road to Greenock ; I had 
composed the lust song I should ever measure 
in Caledonia, The gloomy niykt is yathering 
fast, when a Utter from Dr Blacklock, to a 
friend ot mine, overthrew all my schemes, by 
opening new prospects to my poetic ambition. 
The Doctor belonged to a set of critics, for 
whose applause I had not dared to hope. His 
opinion that J would meet with encouragement 
in Edinburgh for a second edition, fired me so 
much, that away I posted for that city, with- 
out a single acquaintance, or a single letter of 
introduction. The baneful star, that had so 
long shed its blasting influence in my zenith, 
for once made a revolution to the nadir; and 
a kind Providence placed me under the patron- 
age of one of the noblest of men, the Earl of 
Glencaiin. Oublie moi, Grand Dieu, si ja- 
mais je Coublie ! 

" I need relate no farther. At Edinburgh 
I was in a new world •, I mingled among many 
classes of men, but all of them new to me, and 
I was all attention to valch the characters and 
the manners living as they rise. Whether I 
have profited, time will show. 



" My most respectful compliments to Miss 
W. Her very elegant and friendly letter I 
cannot answer at present, as my presence is 
Requisite in Edinburgh, and I set out to-mor- 
row.*" 



At the period of our poet's death, his bro- 
ther, Gilbert Burns, was ignorant that he had 
himself written the foregoing narrative of his 
lite while in Ayrshire ; and having been ap- 
plied to by Mrs Dunlop for some memoirs of 
his brother, he complied with her request in a 
letter, from which the following narrative is 



tected, i; 

c'iSrlt" 



ss of this letter, in the au- 
le of these, evidently cor- 
ah he had copied' several of 
used for the press, with 
:ht alteration suggested by 



chiefly extracted. When Gilbert Burns after, 
wards saw the letter of our port to Dr Moore 
he made some annotations upon it, which shall 
be noticed as we proceed. 

Robert Burns was born on the 20th day of 

miles from the town nf Ayr. and within a few- 
hundred yards of .Alloway Church, which his 
poem of Tarn o' Shunter has rendered immor- 
tal.* The name which the poet and his bro- 
ther modernized into Burns, was originally 
Burnes or Bumess. Their father, William 
Burnes, was the son of a farmer in Kincardine- 
shire, and had received the education common 
in Scotland to persons in his condition of life : 
he could read and write, and had some know- 
ledge of arithmetic. His family having fallen 
into reduced circumstances, he was compelled 
to leave his home in his nineteenth year, and 
turned his steps towards the south in quest of 
a livelihood. The same necessity attended his 
elder brother Robert. » I have often heard 
my father, says Gilbert Burns, in his letter 
to Mrs Dunlop, "describe the angui-h of mind 
he felt when they parted on the top of a hill on 
the confines of their native place, each going 
off his several way in seaicii of new adven- 
tures, and scarcely knowing whither he went. 
My father undertook to act as a gardener, and 
shaped his cour>e to Edinburgh, where he 
wrought hard when he could get work, passing 
through a variety of difficulties. Still, however, 
he endeavoured to spare something for the sup- 
port of his aged parent ; and I recollect hearing 
him mention his having sent a bank-note for 
this purpose, when money of that kind was so 
scarce in Kincardineshire, that they scarcely 
knew how to employ it when it arrived." From 
Edinburgh William Burnes past \vi stward into 
the count) of Ayr, where he engaged himself 
as a gardener to the laird of Fairley, W'ith 
whom he lived two years; then changing his 
service for that of Crawford of Doonside. At 
length, being desirous of settling in life, he 
took a peipetual lease of seven acres of land 
from Dr Campbell, physician in Ayr, with the 
view of commencing nurseryman and public 
gardener; and having built a house upon it 
with his own hands, married in December, 
1757, Agnes Brown, the mother of our poet, 
who still survives. The first fruit of this mar- 
riage was Robert, the subject of these memoirs, 
born on the 29th of January, 1759, as has 
already been mentioned. Before William 
Burnes had made much progress in preparing 
his nursery, he was withdrawn from that under- 
taking by Mr Ferguson, who purchased the 
estate of Doonln.lm, in the immediate neigh- 
bourhood, and engaged him as his gardener 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 



and overseer ; and this was his situation when 
our poet was born. Though in the service of 
Mr Ferguson, he lived in his own house, his 
wife managing her family and little dairy, which 
consisted sometimes of two, sometimes of 
three milch cows ; and this state of unambi- 
tious content continued till the year J 766. His 
son Robert was sent by him, in his sixth year, 
to a school at Alio way Miln, about a mile dis- 
tant, taught by a person of the name of Camp- 
bell ; but this teacher being in a few months 
appointed master of the workhouse at Ayr, 
William Burnes, in conjunction with some 
other heads of families, engaged John Mur- 
doch in his stead. The education of our poet, 
and of his brother Gilbert, was in common ; 
and of their proficiency under Mr Murdoch 
we have the following account : " With him 
we learnt to read English tolerably well,* and 
to write a little. He taught us, too, the Eng- 
lish grammar. I was too young to profit much 
from his lessons in grammar ; but Robert 
made some proficiency in it — a circumstance 
of considerable weight in the unfolding of his 
genius and character; as he soon became re- 
markable for the fluency and correctness of 
his expression, and read the tew books that 
came in his way with much pleasure and im- 
provement ; for even then he was a reader, 
when he could get a book. Murdoch, whose 
library at. that time had no great variety in it. 
lent him The Life of Hannibal, which was the 
first book he read (the school- books excepted) 
and almost the only one he had an opportunity 
of reading while he was at school; for The 
Life of Wallace, which he classes with it in one 
of his letters to you, he did not see for some 
years afterwards, when he borrowed it from 
the blacksmith who shod our horses.'' 

It appears that William Burnes approved 
himself greatly in the service of Mr Ferguson, 
by his intelligence, industry, and integrity. In 
consequence of this, with a view of promoting 
his interest, Mr Ferguson leased him a farm, 
of which we have the following account; 

" The farm was upwards of seventy acres f 
(between eighty and ninety, English statute 
measure), the rent of which was to be forty 
pounds annually for the first six years, and 
afterwards forty-five pounds. My father en- 
deavoured to sell his leasehold property, for 
the purpose of stocking this farm, but at that 
time was unable, and Mr Ferguson lent him a 
hundred pounds for that purpose. He re- 
moved to his new situation at Whitsuntide, 
1766. It was, I think, not above two years 
after this, that Murdoch, our tutor and friend, 
left this part of the country ; and there being 
no school near us, and our little services being 
useful on the farm, my father undertook to 
teach us arithmetic in the winter evenings, by 
candle-light : and in this way my two elder 



* Letter from Gilbert Burns to Mrs Dunlop. 
f Letter of Gilbert Burns to Mrs Dunlop. The 
*Rir,e of this farm is Mount Oiiphant, in Ayr parish. 



sisters got all the education they received. I 
remember a circumstance that happened at 
this time, which, though trifling in itself, is 
fresh in my memory, and may serve to illus- 
trate the early character of my brother. Mur- 
doch came to spend a night with us, and to 
take his leave, when he was about to go into 
Carrick. He brought us, as a present and 
memorial of him, a small compendium of 
English Grammar, and the tragedy of Titut 
Andronicus ; and by way of passing the even. 
ing, he began to read the play aloud. We 
were all attention for some time, till presently 
the whole party was dissolved in tears. A 
female in the play (I have but a confused re- 
membrance of it) had her hands chopt off, and 
her tongue cut out, and then was insultingly 
desired to call for water to wash her hands. 
At this, in an agony of distress, we with one 
voice desired he would read no more. My 
father observed, that if we would not hear it 
out, it would be needless to leave the play with 
us. Robert replied, that if it was left he 
would burn it. My father was going to chide 
him for this ungrateful return to his tutor's 
kindness ; but Murdoch interfered, declaring 
that he liked to see so much sensibility; and 
he left The School for Love, a comedy (trans- 
lated, I think, from the French), in its place."* 
" Nothing," continues Gilbert Burns, "could 
be more retired than our general manner of 
living at Mount Oliphant ; we rarely saw any 
body but the members of our own family. 
There were no boys of our own age, or near 
it, in the neighbourhood. Indeed the greatest 
part of the land in the vicinity was at that 
time possessed by shopkeepers, and people of 
that stamp, who had retired from business, or 
who kept their farm in the country, at the 
same time that they followed business in town. 
My father was for some time almost the only 
companion we had. He conversed familiarly 
on all subjects with us, as if we had been men ; 
and was at great pains, while we accompanied 
him in the labours of the farm, to lead the 
conversation to such subjects as might tend to 
increase our knowledge, or confirm us in vir- 
tuous habits. He borrowed Salmon's Geogra- 



* Tt is to be remembered that the poet was only nine 
years of age, and the relater of this incident under 
e.ght, at the time it happened. Tbe effect was very 
natural in children of sensibility at their age. At a 
more mature period , ,f the judgment, such absurd re- 
presentations are calculated rather to produce disgust 
or laughter, than tears. The scene to which Gilbert 
Burns'alludes, opens thus : 

Titus Andronicus:, Act II. Scene 5. 



Why is this silly play still printed as Shakspeare's, 
against the opinion of all the best critics ? Tbe bard 
of Avon was guilty of many extravagancies, but he 
always performed what he intended to perform. That 
he ever excited in a British mind (for the French 
critics must be set aside) disgust or ridicule, where he 
meant to have awakened pity or horror, is what will 
not be imputed to that master of the passions. 



phical Grammar to 

make us acquainted with the situation and 
history of the different countries in the world ; 
while, from a book-society in Ayr, he pro- 
cured for us the reading of Dcrham's Physico 
and Astro-Theology, and Ray's Wisdom of 
God in the Creation, to give us some idea of 
astronomy and natural history. Robert read 
all these books with an avidity and industry 
scarcely to be equalled. My father had been 
a subscriber to Stack-house's History of the 
Bible, then lately published by James Meuros 
in Kilmarnock : from this Robert collected a 
competent knowledge of ancient history ; for 
no book was so voluminous as to slacken his 
industry, or so antiquated as to damp his re- 
searches. A brother of my mother, who had 
lived with us some time, and had learnt some 
arithmetic by our winter evening's candle, 
went into a bookseller's shop in Ayr, to pur- 
chase The Ready Reckoner, or Tradesman's 
sure Guide, and- a book to teach him to write 
letters. Lucki'/, in place of The Complete 
Letter-Writer, he got, by mistake, a small 
collection of letters by the most eminent writ- 
ers, with a few sensible directions for attain- 
ing an easy epistolary style. This book was 
to Robert of the greatest consequence. It 
inspired him with a strong desire to excel in 
letter-writing, while it furnished him with 
models by some of the first writers in our 
language. 

" My brother was about thirteen or fourteen, 
when my father, regretting that we wrote so 
ill, sent us, week about, during a summer 
quarter, to the parish school of Dalrymple, 
which, though between two and three miles 
distant, was the nearest to us, that we might 
nave an opportunity of remedying this defect. 
About this time a bookish acquaintance of my 
father's procured us a reading of two volumes 
of Richardson's Pamela, which was the first 
novel we read, and the only part of Richard- 
son's works my brother was acquainted with 
till towards the period of his commencing 
author. Till that time too he remained un- 
acquainted with Fielding, with Smollet, (two 
volumes of Ferdinand Count Fathom, and two 
volumes of Peregrine Pickle excepted), with 
Hume, with Robertson, and almost all our 
authors of eminence of the later times. I 
recollect indeed my father borrowed a volume 
of English history from Mr Hamilton of 
Bourtree- hill's gardener. Jt treated of the 
reign of James the First, and his unfortunate 
son, Charles, but I do not know who was the 
author ; all that I remember of it is something 
of Charles's conversation with his children. 
About this time Murdoch, our former teacher, 
after having been in different places in the 
country, and having taught a school some time 
in Dumfries, came to be the established teacher 
of the English language in Ayr, a circum- 
stance of considerable consequence to us. The 
remembrance of my father's former friendship, 
and his attachment to my brother, made him 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS 
d endeavoured to* 'do every thing in his power for our improre- 



He sent us Pope's works, and some 
other poetry, the first that we had an oppor. 
tunity of reading, excepting what is contained 
in The English Collection, and in the volume 
of The Edinburgh Magazine for 1772 ; except- 
ing also those excellent new songs that are 
hawked about the country in baskets, or ex- 
posed on stalls in the streets. 

" The summer after we had been at Dal- 
rymple school, my father sent Robert to Ayr, 
to revise his English grammar, with his former 
teacher. He had been there only one week, 
when he was obliged to return, to assist at the 
harvest. When the harvest was over, he went 
back to school, where he remained two weeks; 
and this completes the account of his school 
education, excepting one summer quarter some 
time afterwards, that he attended the parish 
school of Kirk-Oswald (where he lived with 
a brother of my mother's) to learn survey- 
ing. 

" During the two last weeks that he was 
with Murdoch, be himself was engaged in 
learning French, and he communicated the in- 
structions he received to my brother, who, 
when he returned, brought with him a French 
dictionary and grammar, and the Adventures 
of Telemachus in the original. In a little 
while, by the assistance of these books, he 
acquired such a knowledge of the language, 
as to read and understand any French author 
in prose. This was considered as a sort of 
prodigy, and, through the medium of Mur- 
doch, procured him the acquaintance of several 
lads in Ayr, who were at that time gabbling 
French, and the notice of some families, par- 
ticularly that of Dr Malcolm, where a know- 
ledge of French was a recommendation. 

" Observing the facility with which he had 
acquired the French language, Mr Robinson, 
the established writing-master in Ayr, and Mr 
Murdoch's particular friend, having himself 
acquired a considerable knowledge of the 
Latin language by his own industry, without 
ever having learned it at school, advised Robert 
to make the same attempt, promising him 
every assistance in his power. Agreeably to 
this advice, he purchased The Rudiments oft/ie 
Latin Tongue, but finding this study dry and 
uninteresting, it was quickly laid aside. He 
frequently returned to his Rudiments on any 
little chagrin or disappointment, particularly 
in his love affairs ; but the Latin seldom pre- 
dominated more than a day or two at a time, 
or a week at most. Observing himself the 
ridicule that would attach to this sort of con- 
duct if it were known, he made two or three 
humorous stanzas on the subject, which I can- 
not now recollect, but they all ended, 

* So I'll to my Latin again.' 

" Thus you see Mr Murdoch was a princi- 
pal means of my brother's improvement* 
Worthy man ! though foreign to my present 
c 2 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 



purpose, I cannot take leave of him without - 
tracing his future history. He continued for 
some years a respected and useful teacher at 
Ayr, till one evening that he had been over- 
taken in liquor, he happened to speak some- 
what disrespectfully of Dr Dalrymple, the 
parish minister, who had not paid him that 
attention to which he thought himself entitled. 
In Ayr he might as well have spoken blas- 
phemy. He found it proper to give up his 
appointment. He went to London, where he 
still lives, a private teacher of French. He 
has been a considerable time married, and keeps 
a shop of stationary wares. 

" The father of Dr Paterson, now physi- 
cian at Ayr, was, I believe, a native of Aber- 
deenshire, and was one of the established 
teachers in Ayr when my father settled in the 
neighbourhood. He eagerly recognised my 
father as a fellow native of the north of Scot- 
land, and a certain degree of intimacy subsisted 
between them during Mr Paterson's life. 
After his death, his widow, who is a very 
genteel woman, and of great worth, delighted 
in doing what she thought her husband would 
have wished to have done, and assiduously 
kept up her attentions to all his acquaintance. 
She kept alive the intimacy with our family, 
by frequently inviting my father and mother 
to her house on Sundays, when she met them 
at church. 

" When she came to know my brother's 
passion for books, she kindly offered us the 
use of her husband's library, and from her we 
got the Spectator, Pope's Translation of 
Homer, and several other books that were of 
use to us. Mount Oliphant, the farm my fa- 
ther possessed in the parish of Ayr, is almost 
the very poorest soil I know of in a state of 
cultivation. A stronger proof of this I can- 
not give, than that, notwithstanding the ex- 
traordinary rise in the value of lands in Scot- 
land, it was, after a considerable sum laid out 
in improving it by the proprietor, let, a few 
years ago, five pounds per annum lower than 
the rent paid for it by my father thirty years 
ago. My father, in consequence of this, soon 
came into difficulties, which were increased by 
the loss of several of his cattle by accidents 
and disease. — To the bufferings of misfortune, 
we could only oppose hard labour and the most 
rigid economy. We lived very sparingly. For 
several years butcher's meat was a stranger in 
the house, while all the members of the family 
exerted themselves to the utmost of their 
strength, and rather beyond it, in the labours 
of the farm. My brother, at the age of 
thirteen, assisted in threshing the crop of corn 
and at fifteen was the principal labourer on th< 
farm, for we had no hired servant, male or 
female. The anguish of mind we felt at our 
tender years, under these straits and difficulties, 
was very great. To think of our father grow- 
ing old (for he was now above fifty,) broken 
down with the long continued fatigues of his 
life, with a wife and five other children, and in 



a declining state of circumstances, these re- 
flections produced in my brother's mind ancf 
mine sensations of the deepest distress. 1 
doubt not but the hard labour and sorrow of 
this period of his life, was in a great measure 
the cause of that depression of spirits with 
which Robert was so often afflicted through 
his whole life afterwards. At this time he 
was almost constantly afflicted in the evenings 
with a dull headache, which, at a future period 
of his life, was exchanged for a palpitation of 
the heart, and a threatening of fainting and 

ffocation in his bed, in the night-time. 

" By a stipulation in my father's lease, he 
had a right to throw it up, if he thought pro- 
per, at the end of every sixth year. He 
attempted to fix himself in a better farm at the 
end of the first six years, but failing in that 
attempt, he continued where he was for six 
years more. He then took the farm of Loch- 
lea, of 130 acres, at the rent of twenty shillings 
an acre, in the parish of Tarbolton, of Mr 

, then a merchant in Ayr, and 

now (1797) a merchant in Liverpool. He 
removed to this farm at Whitsunday, 1777, and 
possessed it only seven years. No writing 
had ever been made out of the conditions of 
the lease ; a misunderstanding took place re- 
specting them ; the subjects in dispute were 
submitted to arbitration, and the decision 
involved my father's affairs in ruin. He lived 
to know of this decision, but not to see any 
execution in consequence of it. He died on, 
the 13th of February, 1784. 

" The seven years we lived in Tarbolton 
parish (extending from the seventeenth to the 
twenty-fourth of my brother's age), were not 
marked by much literary improvement; but 
during this time the foundation was laid of 
certain habits in my brother's character, which 
afterwards became but too prominent, and 
which malice and envy have taken delight to 
enlarge on. Though, when young, he was 
bashful and awkward in his intercourse with 
women, yet when he approached manhood, his 
attachment to their society became very strong, 
and he was constantly the victim of some fair 
enslaver. The symptoms of his passion were 
often such as nearly to equal those of the 
celebrated Sappho. I never indeed knew that 
he fainted, sunk, and died away ; but the agita- 
tions of his mind and body exceeded any thing 
of the kind I ever knew in real life. He had 
always a particular jealousy of people who: 
were richer than himself, or who had more 
consequence in life. His love, therefore* 
rarely settled on persous of this description.. 
When he selected any one, out of the sove- 
reignty of his good pleasure, to whom he 
should pay his particular attention, she was 
instantly invested with a sufficient stock of 
charms, out of the plentiful stores of his own 
imagination ; and there was often a great dis- 
similitude between his fair captivator, as she 
appeared to others, and as she seemed whe- « 
invested with the attributes he gave her. Ouft 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 



generally reigned paramount in his affections : 
but as Yorick's affections flowed out toward 

Madame de L at the remise door, while 

the eternal vows of Eliza were upon him, so 
Robert was frequently encountering other 
attractions, which formed so many under plots 
in the drama of his love. As these connexions 
were governed by the strictest rules of virtue 
and modesty (from which he never deviated 
till he reached his 23d year), he became anxi- 
ous to be in a situation to marry. This was 
not likely to be soo'n the case while he re- 
mained a farmer, as the stocking of a farm 
required a sum of money he had no probabi- 
lity of being master of for a great while. He 
began, therefore, to think of trying some other 
line of life. He and I had for several years 
taken land of my father for the purpose of 
raising flax on our own account. In the 
course of selling it, Robert began to think of 
turning flax-dresser, both as being suitable to 
his grand view of settling in life, and as sub- 
servient to the flax raising. He accordingly 
wrought at the business of a flax-dresser in 
Irvine for six months, but abandoned it at that 
period, as neither agreeing with his healih nor 
inclination. In Irvine he had contracted some 
acquaintance of a freer manner of thinking and 
living than he had been used to, whose society 
prepared him for overleaping the bounds of 
rigid virtue which had hitherto restrained him. 
Towards the end of the period under review 
(in his 24-th year), and soon after his father's 
death, he was furnished with the subject of his 
epistle to John Rankin. During this period 
also he became a freemason, which was his 
first introduction to the life of a boon com- 
panion. Yet, notwithstanding these circum- 
stances, and the praise he has bestowed on 
Scotch drink (which seems to have misled his 
historians), I do not recollect, during these 
seven years, nor till towards the end of his 
commencing author (when his growing cele- 
brity occasioned his being often in company), 
to have ever seen him intoxicated; nor was he 
at all given to drinking. A stronger proof of 
the general sobriety of his conduct need not 
be required than what I am about to give. 
During the whole of the time we lived in the 
farm of Lochlea with my father, he allowed 
my brother and me such wages for our labour 
as he gave to other labourers, as a part of 
which, every article of our clothing manufac- 
tured in the family was regularly accounted for. 
When my father's affairs drew near a crisis, 
Robert and I took the farm of Mossgiel, con- 
sisting of 1 18 acres, at the rent of .£90 per an- 
num (the farm on which I live at present) from 
Mr Gavin Hamilton, as an asylum for the 
family in case of the worst. It was stocked 
by the property and individual savings of the 
whole family, ind was a joint concern among 
us. Every member of the family was allowed 
ordinary wages for the labour he performed on 
the farm. My brother's allowance and mine 
was seven pounds per annum each. And dur- 



ing the whole time this family concern lasted, 
which was four years, as well as during the 
preceding period at Lochlea, hid expenses 
never in any one year exceeded his slender in- 
come. As I was intrusted with the keeping 
of the family accounts, it is not possible that 
there can be any fallacy in this statement in 
my brother's favour. His temperance and fru- 
gality were every thing that could be wished. 

" The farm of Mossgiel lies very high, and 
mostly on a cold wet bottom. The first four 
years that we were on the farm were very 
frosty, and the spring was very late. Our 
crops in consequence were very unprofitable ; 
and, notwithstanding our utmost diligence and 
economy, we found ourselves obliged to give 
up our bargain, with the loss of a considerable 
part of our original stock. It was during 
these four years that Robert formed his con- 
nexion with Jean Armour, afterwards Mrs 
Burns This connexion could no longer be 
concealed, about the time we came to a final 
determination to quit the farm. Robert durst 
not engage with a family in his poor unsettled 
state, but was anxious to shield his partner 
by every means in his power from the conse- 
quences of their imprudence. It was agreed 
therefore between them, that they should make 
a legal acknowledgment of an irregular and 
private marriage ; that he should go to Jamaica, 
to push his fortune; and that she should re- 
main with her father till it might please Pro- 
vidence to put the means of supporting a family 
in his power. 

" Mrs Burns was a great favourite of her 
father's. The intimation of a private mar- 
riage was the first suggestion he received of 
her real situation. He was in the greatest 
distress, and fainted away. The marriage did 
not appear to him to make the matter any bet- 
ter. A husband in Jamaica appeared to him 
and his wife little better than none, and an ef- 
fectual bar to any other prospects of a settle- 
ment in life that their daughter might have. 
They therefore expressed a wish to her, that 
the written papers which respected the mar- 
riage should be cancelled, and thus the mar- 
riage rendered void. In her melancholy state 
she felt the deepest remorse at having brought 
such heavy affliction on parents that loved her 
so tenderly, and submitted to their entreaties 
Their wish was mentioned to Robert. He 
felt the deepest anguish of mind. He offered 
to stay at home and provide for his wife and 
family in the best manner that his daily labours 
could provide for them ; that being the only 
means in his power. Even this offer they did 
not approve of; for humble as Miss Armour's 
station was, and great though her imprudence 
had been, she still, in the eyes of her partial 
parents, might look to a better connexion than 
that with my friendless and unhappy brother 
at that time without house or hiding-place. 
Robert at length consented to their wishes ; 
but his feelings on this occasion were of the 
most distracting nature : and the impressior of 



xxxvm 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 



sorrow was not effaced, till by a regular mar- 
riage they were indissolubly united. In the 
state of mind which this separation produced, 
he wished to leave the country as soon as pos- 
sible, and agreed with Dr Douglas to go out 
to Jamaica as an assistant overseer, or, as I 
believe it is called, a book-keeper, on his 
estate. As he had not sufficient money to pay 
his passage, and the vessel in which Dr Dou- 
glas was to procure a passage for him was not 
expected to sail for some time, Mr Hamilton 
advised him to publish his poems in the mean- 
time by subscription, as a likely way of get- 
ting a little money to provide him more liber- 
ally in necessaries for Jamaica. Agreeably to 
this advice, subscription bills were printed im- 
mediately, and the printing was commenced 
at Kilmarnock, his preparations going on at 
the same time for his voyage. The reception, 
however, which his poems met with in the 
world, and the friends they procured him, 
made him change his resolution of going to 
Jamaica, and he was advised to go to Edin- 
burgh to publish a second edition. On his 
return, in happier circumstances, he renewed 
his connexion with Mis Burns, and rendered 
it permanent by a union for life. 

" Thus, Madam, have I endeavoured to give 
you a simple narrative of the leading circum- 
stances in my brother's early lite. The re- 
maining part he spent in Edinburgh or Dum- 
fries-shire, and its incidents are as well known 
to you as to me. His genius having procured 
him your patronage and friendship, this gave 
rise to the correspondence between you, in 
which, I believe, his sentiments were delivered 
with the most respectful, but most unreserved 
confidence, and which only terminated with the 
last days of his life." 



Tnis narrative of Gilbert Burns may serve 
as a commentary on the preceding sketch of 
our poet's life by himself. It will be seen 
that the distraction of mind which he mentions 
(p xxxii,)aiose from the distress and sorrow in 
which he had involved his future wife. The 
whole circumstances attending this connexion 
are certainly of a very singular nature.* 

The reader will perceive, from the foregoing 
narrative how much the children of William 
Burnes were indebted to their father, who was 
certainly a man of uncommon talents ; though 
it does not appear that he possessed any 
por* ; on of that vivid imagination for which the 
subject of these memoirs was distinguished. 
In page xxx. it is observed by our poet, that 
his father had an unaccountable antipathy to '■ 
dancing-schools, and that his attending one of 

* In pago xxxiii. the poet mentions his " skulking' 
from covert to covnrt, under all the terrors of a jail."— 
The "pack of the law were uncoupled at his heels," to 
oblige him to find security for the maintenance of his 
twin-children, whom he "was not permitted to legit i- 1 
mate ly a inarriaye with their mother 



these brought on him his displeasure, and even 
dislike. On this observation Gilbert has 
made the following remark, which seems en- 
titled to implicit credit: — " I wonder how 
Robert could attribute to our father that last- 
ing resentment of his going to a dancing-school 
against his will, of which he was incapable. 
I believe the truth was, that he, about this 
time, began to see the dangerous impetuosity 
of my brother's passions, as well as his not being 
amenable to counsel, which often irritated my 
father ; and which he would naturally think a 
dancing-school was not likely to correct. But 
he was proud of Robert's genius, which he be- 
stowed more expense in cultivating than on the 
rest of the family, in the instances of sending 
him to Ayr and Kirk- Oswald schools ; and he 
was greatly delighted with his warmth of heart, 
and his conversational powers. He had in- 
deed that dislike of dancing-schools which 
Robert mentions ; but so far overcame it during 
Robert's first month of attendance, that he 
allowed all the rest of the family that we're 
fit for it, to accompany him during the second 
month. Robert excelled in dancing, and was 
for some time distractedly fond of it." 

In the original letter to Dr Moore, our poet 
described his ancestors as " renting lands of 
the noble Keiths of Marischal, and as having 
had the honour of sharing their fate. " " I do 
not," continues he, " use the word honour 
with any reference to political principles \ 
loyal and disloyal I take to be merely relative 
terms, in that ancient and formidable court, 
known in this country by the name of Club- 
law, where the right is always with the 
strongest. But those who dare welcome ruin 
and shake hands with infamy, for what they 
sincerely believe to be the cause of their God, 
or their king, are, as Mark Antony says in 
Shakspeare, of Brutus and Cassius, honourable 
men. I mention this circumstance, because it 
threw my father on the world at large." 

This paragraph has been omitted in printing 
the letter, at the desire of Gilbert Burns ; 
and it would have been unnecessary to have 
noticed it on the present occasion, had not 
several manuscript copies of that letter been in 
circulation. " I do not know," observes 
Gilbert Burns, " how my brother could be 
misled in the account he has given of the 
Jacobitism of his ancestors. — I believe the 
Earl of Marischal forfeited his title and estate 
in J 715, before my father was bom; and 
among a collection of parish-certificates in his 
possession, I have read one, stating that the 
bearer had no concern in the lute wicked rebel- 
lion." On the information of one who knew 
William Burnes soon after he arrived in the 
county of Ayr, it may be mentioned, that a 
report did prevail, that he had taken the field 
with the young chevalier ; a report which the 
certificate mentioned by his son was, perhaps, 
intended to counteract. Strangers from the 
North, settling in the low country of Scotland, 
were in those days liable to suspicions of hav 



LIFE OF ROBER'l BURNS. 



inp been, in the familiar phrase of the country, 
"Out in the forty-five," (174-5.) especially 
when they had any stateliness or reserve about 
them, as was the case with William Bumes. 
It may easily be conceived, that our poet would 
cherish the belief of his father's having been 
engaged in the daring enterprise of Prince 
Charles Edward. The generous attachment, 
the heroic valour, and the final misfortunes of 
the adherents of the house of Stuart, touched 
with sympathy his youthful and ardent mind, and 
influenced his original political opinions.* The 
father of our poet is described by one who 
knew him towards the latter end of his life, as 
ubove the common stature, thin, and bent with 
labour. His countenance was serious and ex- 
pressive, and the scanty locks on his head were 
grey. He was of a religious turn of mind, and as 
is usual among I he Scot tishpeasantry,agood deal 
conversant in speculative theology. There is 
in Gilbert's hands a little manual of religious 
belief, in the form of a dialogue between a fa- 
ther and his son, composed by him for the use 
of his children, in which the benevolence of 
his heart seems to have led him to soften the 
rigid Calvinism of the Scottish church, into 
something approaching to Arminianism. He 
was a devout man, and in the practice of call- 
ing his family together to join in prayer. It is 
known that the following exquisite picture, in 
the Cutler's Saturday Ni.jht, represents Wil- 
liam Burnes and his family at their evening 
devotions. 

The cheerful supper done, with serious lace, 
They, round the ingle, | form a circle wide; 

The sire turns o'er, wiih patriarchal grace, 
The big WMJible, once his father's pride: 

His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside, 

His lyart barrets \ wearing thin and bare ; 



* There is another observation of Gilbert Burns on 

of his youthful IriencW. " My'brother," says Gilbert 
Burns, "seems to set off hi- early companions in too 

we had in Avr, while boy*, were lour sons of .Mi- 
Andrew M'Cullueh, a distant relation of my mother-, 
who kept a tea-shop, and bad made a little money in 
the contraband trade, very common at that time, he 
died while the boys were voune, and my father was 
nominated one oi the tutors. The two eldest were 
bred shop-keepers, the third a surgeon, and the young- 
est, the only -ut viving one, was bred in a rountiiiL'- 
house in Glasgow, » heie he is now a ro-peetable mer- 
chant. I believe a'l these hoy- went lo the West Indies. 
Then there were two sons of Dr Malcolm, whom 1 
have mentioned in my letter to Mrs Dunlop. The 
eldest, a very worthy young man, went to the East 
Indies, where he had a commission in the army ; lie is 
the person, whose heart my hrolher say- the ' ilnn >,„ 
Jiezum srriie* muhl not corrupt- The other, by the 
■'-' ensigncy in a regiment 



Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide, 

He wales* a portion with judicious care ; 

And " Let us worship God!" he say with solemn 



They chant their artless notes in simple guise , 
They tune their hearts, by far the noblesl 

Perhaps Dundee' s\ wild warbling measures 

Or plaintive Martyr* \ won hy of the name; 

Or noble El "in \ heels { the heavenly Haute, 
The sweetest far of Scotia's holv lavs ; 

Compared with these, Italian trills are tame; 

The tickled ears no heartfelt raptures raise; 

No unison have they with our Creator's praise. 

The priest-like father reads the sacred page,§ 
How Abram was the friend of (lodon high ; 

Or, Moses bade eternal warfare wage 
With Amalek's ungracious progeny; 

Or how the roi/al bard did groaning lie, 
Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging 

Or, Job's 'pathetic plaint, and wailing cry; 

Or, rapt Isaiah's wild seraphic fi re ; 

Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. 

Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme. 
How guiltless blood forguilty man was shed; 

How he who bore in heaven the second name, 
Had not on earth whereon to lav his head; 

How his first followers and servants sped ; 
The precepts sage they wrote to many a land : 

How he who lone in Pah, ' 



[ bel 



We also 1 



f Han 

resent Dr Haters II of Ayr, 

us. I bad almost torgo't to it 
who was a little older th 
whom he had a longer and 
any of the others, which d 

X Grey temples. 



lily 



:rl sta 



And heard great Babylon's doom pronounced, 
by Heaven's command ! 

Then kneeling down to Heaven's eternal King, 

The saint, the, father, and the husband prays ; 
Hone springs exulting on triumphant wing, 

That, thus the\ all shall meet in future days ; 
There ever bask in uncreated rays, 

No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear, 
Together hymning their Creator's praise, 

In such society, yet still more dear ; 
While circling lime "moves round in an eternal 
sphere. 



Then homeward all takeoff their several way ; 

The youngling cottagers retire to rest; 
'Die parent pair their secret homage pay, 

And offer up to Heaven the warm request, 
That he who stills the raven's clam'rous nest, 

And decks the lilv fair in flowery pride, 
Would in the wav his wisdom sees the best. 



l and f 



Forthei 
But chiefly 

preside! 



by William Burnes, w 

I Adds fuel to 

S The curse of fan 
first to -ing a psalm, tl 
and lastly lo kneel do\ 



r lit 



vith 



dioine 



life of rouert burns. 



-Of a family so interesting as that which 
inhabited the cottage of William Burnes, and 
particularly of the father of the family, the 
reader will perhaps be willing to listen to some 
farther account. What follows is given by 
one already mentioned with so much honour, 
in the narrative of Gilbert Burns, Mr Mur- 
doch, the preceptor of our poet, who, in a let- 
ter to Joseph Cooper Walker, Esq. of Dublin, 
author of the Historical Memoir of the Italian 
Trayedy, lately published, thus expresses 
himself: 



' I was lately favoured with a letter from our 
3] thy friend, the Rev. Wm. Adair, in which 



he reauested me t 



rte to you wha 



hat- 



ever particulars I could recollect concerning 
Robert Burns, the Ayrshire poet. My busi- 
ness being at present multifarious and harass- 
ing, my attention is consequently so much di- 
vided, and I am so little in the habit of express- 
ing my thoughts on paper, that at this distance 
of time I can give but a very imperfect sketch 
of the early part of the life of that extraordinary 
genius with which alone I am acquainted. 

" William Burnes, the father of the poet, 
was born in the shire of Kincardine, and bred 
a gardener. He had been settled in Ayrshire 
ten or twelve years before I knew him, and 
had been in the service of Mr Crawford of 
Doonside. He was afterwards employed as a 
gardener and overseer by Pivvost Ferguson of 
Doonholm, in the parish of Alloway, which is 
now united with that of Ayr. In this parish, 
on the road side, a Scotch mile and a half from 
the town of Ayr, atid half a. mile from the 
bridge of Doon, William Burnes took a piece 
of land consisting of about seven acres, part of 
which he laid out in garden ground, and part 
of which he kept to graze a cow, {ice. sti.l con- 
tinuing in the employ of Provost Ferguson. 
Upon this little farm was erected an humble 
dwelling, of which William Burnes was the 
architect. It was, with the exception of a little 
straw, literally a tabernacle of clay. In this 
mean cottage, of which I myself was at times 
an inhabitant, I really believe, there dwelt a 
larger portion of content than in any palace in 
Europe. The Cotters Saturday Night, will 
give some idea of the temper and manners that 
prevailed there. 

" In 1765, about the middle of March, Mr 
W. Burnes came to Ayr, and sent to the 
school where I was improving in writing under 
my good friend Mr Robison, desiring that I 
would come and speak to him at a certain inn, 
and bring my writing book with me. This 
was immediately complied with. Having ex- 
amined my writing, he was pleased with it — 
(you will readily allow he was not difficult), 
and told me that he had received very satisfac- 
tory information of Mr Tennant, the master of 
the English school, concerning my improve- 
ment in English, and in his method of teach- 
ing. In the month of May following, I was 



eneriged by Mr Burnes. and four of his neigh- 
bours to teach, and accordingly began to teach 
the little school at Alloway, which was situ- 
ated a few yards from the argillaceous fabric 
above mentioned. My five employers under- 
took to board me by turns, and to make up a 
certain salary, at the end of the year, provided 
my quarterly payments from the different pu- 
piis did not amount to that sum. 

" My pupil, Robert Burns, was then be- 
tween six and seven years of age ; his precep- 
tor about eighteen. Robert and his younger 
brother Gilbert, had been grounded a little in 
English before they were put under my care. 
'J hey both made a rapid progress in reading, 
and a tolerable progress in writing. In read- 
ing, dividing words into syllablrs by rule, spell- 
ing without hook, parsing sentences, &c. Ro- 
bert and Gilbert were generally at the upper 
end of the class, even when ranged with boys 
by far their seniors. The books most com- 
monly used in the schools were the Spelling 
Book, the New Testament, the Bible, Mason's 
Collection of Prose and Verse, and Fisher's 
English Gran mar. They committed to me- 
mory the hymns, and other poems of that col- 
lection, with uncommon facility. This facility 
was partly owing to the method pursued by 
their father and me in instructing them, which 
was, to make them thoroughly acquainted with 
the meaning of every word in each sentence 
that was to be committed to memory. By the 
bye, this may be easier done, and at an earlier 
period, than is generally thought. As soon as 
they were capable of it, I taught them to turn 
verse into its natural prose order; sometimes 
to substitute synonymous expressions for poeti- 
cal words, and to supply all the ellipses. 
These, you know, are the means of knowing 
that the pupil understands his author. These 
are excellent help3 to the arrangement of w ords 
in sentences, as well as to a variety of expres- 
sion. 

" Gilbert always appeared to me to possess a 
more lively imagination, and to be more of the 
wit, than Robert. I attempted to teach them 
a little church-music. Here they were left far 
behind by all the rest of the school. Robert's 
ear, in particular, was remarkably dull, and his 
voice untunable. It was long before I could 
get them to distinguish one tune from another. 
Robert's countenance was generally grave, and 
expressive of a serious, contemplative, and 
thoughtful mind. Gilbert's face said, Mirth, 
with thee I mean to lice; and certainly, if any 
person who knew the two boys, had been asked 
which of them was the most likely to court the 
muses, he would surely never have guessed that 
Robert had a propensity of that kind. 

" In the year 1767, Mr Burnes quitted his 
mud edifice, and took possession of a farm 
(Mount Oliphant) of his own improving, while 
in the service of Provost Ferguson. This farm 
being at a considerable distance from the school, 
the boys could not attend regularly ; and some 
changes had taken place among the other sup- 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS 



Xil 



porters oftlie eohool, I left it, having continued 
to conduct it for nearly two years and a half. 

"In the year 1772, I was appointed (being 
:ne of five candidates who were examined) to 
teach the English school at Ayr; and in 1773, 
Robert Burns came to board and lodge with 
me, for the purpose of revising English gram- 
mar, &c. that lie might be better qualified to 
instruct his brothers and sisters at home. Hi 
was now with me day and night, in school, at 
all meals, and in all my walks. At the end of 
one week, I told him, that, as be was now 
pretty much master of the parts of speech, &c. 
I should like to teach him something of French 
pronunciation, that when he should meet with the 
name of a French town, ship, officer, or the like, 
in the newspapers, he might be able to pronounce 
it something like a French word. Robert was 
glad to hear this proposal, and immediately we 
attacked the French with gi eat courage. 

" Now there was little else to be heard but 
the declension of nouns, the conjugation of 
verbs, &c. When walking together, and even 
at meals, I was constantly telling him the names 
of different objects, as they presented them 
selves, in French ; so that he was hourly laying 
in a stock of words, and sometimes little 
phrases. In short, he took such pleasure in 
learning, and I in teaching, that it was difficult 
to say which of the two was most zealous in 
the business ; and about the end of the second 
week of our study of the French, we began to 
read a little of the Adventures of Telemachus, in 
Feneioirs own words. 

" But now the plains of Mount Oliphant be- 
gan to whiten, and Robert was summoned to 
relinquish the pleasing scenes that surrounded 
the grotto of Calypso, and, armed with a sickle, 
to seek glory by signalizing himself in the fields 
of Ceres — and so he did ; for although but 
about fifteen, I was told that he performed the 
work of a man. 

.Thus was I deprived of my very apt pupil, 
and consequently agreeable companion, at the 
end of three weeks, one of which was spent 
•entirely in the study of English, arid the other 
two chiefly in that of French. I did not, how- 
ever, lose sight of him •, but was a frequent 
visitant at his father's house, when I had my 
half-holiday, and very often went accompanied 
with one or two persons more intelligent than 
myself, that good William Burnes might enjoy 
a mental feast. — Then the labouring oar was 
shifted to some other hand. The father and 
the son sat down with us, when we enjoyed a 
conversation, wherein solid reasoning, sensible 
remark, and a moderate seasoning of jocularity, 
were so nicely blended as to render it palata- 
ble to all parties. Robert had a hundred ques- 
tions to ask me about the French, &c. ; and 
the father, who had always rational informa- 
tion in view, had still some question to pro- 
pose to my more learned friends, upon moral 
or natural philosophy, or some such interesting 
subject. Mrs Burnes too was of the party as 
much as possible; 



' But still the house affairs would draw her fhenca^ 

Which ever as she could with haste despatch, 
She'd come again, and, with a greedy ear, 
Devour up their discourse' 

and particularly that of her husband. At all 
times, and in all companies, she listened to 
him with a more ma^ed attention than to any 
body else. When under the necessity of be- 
ing absent while he was speaking, she seemed 
to regret, as a real loss, that she had missed 
what the good- man had said. This worthy 
woman, Agnes Brown, had the most thorough 
esteem for her husband of any woman I ever 
knew. I can by no means wonder that she 
highly esteemed him ; for I myself have 
always considered William Burnes as by far 
the best of the human race that ever I had the 
pleasure of being acquainted with — and many 
a worthy character I have known. I can 
cheerfully join with Robert in the last line of 
his epitaph (borrowed from Goldsmith), 

•And ev'n his failings lean'd to virtue's side.' 

" He was an excellent husband, if I may 
judge from his assiduous attention to the ease 
and comfort of his worthy partner, and from 
her affectionate behaviour to him, as well as 
her unwearied attention to the duties of a 
mother. 

" He was a tender and affectionate father; 
he took pleasure in leading his children in the 
path of virtue ; not in driving them, as some 
parents do, to the performance of duties to 
which they themselves are averse. He took 
care to find fault but very seldom ; and there- 
fore, when he did rebuke, he was listened to 
with a kind of reverential awe. A look of 
disapprobation was felt ; a reproof was severely 
so; and a stripe with the taws, even on the 
skirt of the coat, gave heart-felt pain, produced 
loud lamentation, and brought forth a flood 
of tears. 

He had the art of gaining the esteem and 
good- will of those that were labourers under 
him. I think I never saw him angry but 
e: :he one time it was with the foreman 
of the band, for not reaping the field as he was 
desired ; and the other time, it was with an 
old man, for using smutty inuendoes and double 

•tendres. Were every foul-mouthed old man 
to receive a seasonable check in this way, it 

'ould be to the advantage of the rising gener- 
ation. As he was at no time overbearing to 
inferiors, he was equally incapable of that 
passive, pitiful, paltry spirit, that induces some 
people to keep booing atid booing in the pre- 
sence of a great man. He always treated 
superiors with a becoming respect; but he 
never gave the smallest encouragement to 
aristocratical arrogance. But I must not pre- 
tend to give you a description of all the manly 
qualities, the rational and Christian virtues of 
the venerable William Burnes. Time would 
fail me. I shall only add, that he carefully 



Xill 



LIFE OF ROBEET BURKS. 



practised every known duty, and avoided every 
thing that was criminal ; or, in the apostle's 
words, Herein did he exercise himself, in living 
a life void of offence towards God and towards 
men. O for a world of men of such disposi- 
tions! We should then have no wars. I 
have often wished, for the good of mankind, 
that it were as customary to honour and per- 
petuate the memory of those who excel in 
moral rectitude, as it is to extol what are called 
heroic actions : then would the mausoleum of 
the friend of my youth overtop and snrpass 
most of the monuments I see in Westminster 
Abbey. 

" Although I cannot do justice to the char- 
acter of this worthy man, yet you will perceive, 
from these few particulars, what kind of person 
had the principal hand in the education of our 
poet. He spoke the English language with 
more propriety (both with respect to diction 
and pronunciation), than any man J ever knew 
with no greater advantages. This had a very 
good effect on the hoys, who began to talk, 
and reason like men, much sooner than their 
neighbours. 1 do not recollect any of their 
cotemporaries, at my little seminary, who 
afterwards made any great figure as literary 
characters, except Dr Tennant, who was chap- 
lain to Colonel Fullarton's regiment, and who 
is now in the East Indies. He is a man of 
genius and learning ; yet affable, and free from 
pedantry. 

" Mr Burnes in a short time, found that he 
had overrated Mount Oliphant, and that he 
could not rear his numeious family upon it. — 
After being there some years, he removed to 
Lochlea, in the parish of Tarbolton, where, I 
Delieve, Eobert wrote most of his poems. 

" But here, sir, you will permit me to pause. 
I can tell you but little more relative to our 
poet. I shall, however, in my next, send you 
a copy of one of his letters to me, about the 
year 1783.* I received one since, but it is 
mislaid. Please remember me, in the best 
manner, to my worthy friend Mr Adair, when 
you see him or write to him. 

" Han Street, Blpomsbury Square, 
London, Feb. 22, 17^9." 

As the narrative of Gilbert Burns was 
written at a time when he was ignorant of the 
existence of the preceding narrative of his 
brother, so this letter of Mr Murdoch was 
written without his having any knowledge that 
either of his pupils had been employed on the 
same subject. The three relations serve, 
therefore, not merely to illustrate, but to 
authenticate each other. Though the infor- 
mation they convey might have been presented 
within a shorter compass, by reducing the 
whole into one unbroken narrative, it is scarcely 
to be doubted, that the intelligent reader will 
be far more gratified by a sight of these origi- 
nal documents themselves. 



Under the humble roof of his parents it ap- 
pears indeeed that our poet had great advan- 
tages ; but his opportunities of information at 
school were more limited as to time than they 
usually are among his countrymen, in his con- 
dition of life ; and the acquisitions which he 
made, and the poetical talent which ha exerted 
under the pressure of early and incessent toil, 
and of inferior, and perhaps scanty nutriment, 
testify at once the extraordinary force and ac- 
tivity of his mind. In his frame of body he 
rose nearly to live feet ten inches, and assumed 
the proportions that indicate agility as well as 
strength. In the various labours of the farm 
he excelled all his competitors. Gilbert Bun s 
declares, that, in mowing, the exercise that 
tries all the muscles motst severely. Robert 
was the only man that, at the end of a sum- 
mer's day, he was ever obliged to acknowledge 
as his master. But though our poet gave the 
powers of his body to the labours of the farm, 
he refused to bestow on them his thoughts or 
his cares. While the ploughshare under his 
guidance passed through the sward, or the 
grass fell under the sweep of his scythe, he 
was humming the songs of his country, musing 
on the deeds of ancient valour, or rapt in the 
illusions of Fancy, as her enchantments rose 
on his view. Happily the Sunday is yet a 
sabbath, on which man and beast rest from 
heir labours. On this day, therefore, Burns 
could indulge in a freer intercourse with the 
charms of nature. It was his delight to wan- 
der alone on the banks of the Ayr, whose 
stream is now immortal, and to listen to the 
song of the blackbird at the close of the sum- 
mer's day. But still greater was his pleasure, 
as he himself informs us, in walking on the 
sheltered side of a wood, in a cloudy winter day, 
j and hearing the storm rave among the trees; and 
j more elevated still his delight, to ascend some 
I eminence during the agitations of nature, to 
j stride along its summit, while the lightning 
flashed around him, and amidst the howlings 
I of the tempest, to apostrophize the spirit of 
I the storm. Such situations he declares most 
I favourable to devotion — " Rapt in enthusiasm, 
j I seem to ascend towards Him who walks on 
j the wings of the wind .'" If other proofs were 
I wanting of the character of his genius, this 
i might determine it. The heart of the poet 
is peculiarly awake to every impression of 
beauty and sublimity ; but with the higher 
order of poets, the beautiful is less attractive 
than the sublime. 

The gaiety of many of Burns's writings, 
and the lively, and even cheerful colouring with 
which he has pourtrayed his own character, 
may lead some persons to suppose, that the 
melancholy which hung over him towards the 
end of his days, was not an original part of his 
constitution. It is not to be doubted, indeed, 
that this melancholy acquired a darker hue in 
the progress of his life; but, independent of 
his own and of his brother's testimony, evidence 
is to be found among his papers, that he wa& 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 



sliif 



subject very early to those depressions of mind, 
which are perhaps not wholly separable from 
the sensibility of genius, but which in him 
rose to an uncommon degree. The following 
letter, addressed to his father, will serve as a 
proof of this observation. Jt was written at 
the time when he was learning the business of 
a flax dresser, and is dated 

" honoured sir, Irvine, Dec. 27, 1781. 
" I have purposely delayed writing, in the 
hope that I should have the pleasure of seeing 
you on New-year's day ; but work comes so 
hard upon us, that I do not choose to be ab- 
sent on that account, as well as for some other 
little reasons, which I shall tell you at meeting. 
My heal'h is nearly the same as when you were 
here, only my sleep is a little sounder, and, 
on the whole, I am rather better than other- 
wise, though I mend by very slow degrees. 
The weakness of my nerves has so debilitated 
my mind, that I dare neither review past 
wants, nor look forward into futurity ; for the 
least anxiety or perturbation in my breast, pro- 
duces most unhappy effects on my whole frame. 
Sometimes, indeed, when for an hour or two 
my spirits are a little lightened, I glimmer a 
little into futurity ; but my principal, and in- 
deed my only pleasurable employment, is look- 
ing backwards and forwards in a moral and re- 
ligious way. I am quite transported at the 
thought, that ere long, perhaps very soon, I 
shall bid an eternal adieu to all the pains and 
uneasinesses, and disquietudes of this weary 
life ; for I assure you I am heartily tired of 
it ; and, if I do not very much deceive myself, 
I could contentedly and gladly resign it. 



•* It is for this reason I am more pleased 
with the loth, 16th, and 17th verses of the 7th 
chapter of Revelations, than with any ten 
times as many verses in the whole Bible, and 
would not exchange the noble enthusiasm with 
which they inspire me for all that this worl< 
has to offer. * As for this world, I despaii 
of ever making a figure in it. I am rot 
formed for the bustle of the busy, nor the 
flutter of the gay. I shall never again be 
capable of entering into such scenes. Indeed 
J am altogether unconcerned at the thoughts of 
this life. I foresee that poverty and obscurity 
probably await me, and I am in some measur 



foil! 



• The verses of Scripture here alluded b 
the tlirou. 



sittetl 



? they before the throne of God, 
1 nii.'lit in his temple ; and lie that 
shall dwell among them. 
„.. rJ „,,.„. nunaer no more, neither thirst anv 

more; neither shall the sun light on them, nor any 

heat. 

17. " For the Lamb that is in the midst of the '•>-««« 

Bhall feed them, and shall lead them unto 

tains of waters ; and God shall 

from their eyes." 



i living to,, 
va\ all tei 



prepared, and daily preparing to meet then. 
1 have but just time and paper to return yo» 
my grateful thanks for the lessons of virtue 
and piety you have given me, which were too 
much neglected at the time of giving them,, 
but which, 1 hope, have been remembered ere 
it is yet too late. Present my dutiful respects t J 
my mother, and my compliments to Mr and 
Mrs Muir; and, with wishing you a merry 
New-year's-day, I shall conclude. 
" I am. honoured sir, 
" Your dutiful son, 

"ROBERT BURNS." 

" P.S. My meal is nearly out; but I am 
going to borrow, till I get more. 

This letter written several years before the 
publication of his poems, when his name was- 
as obscure as his condition was humble, dis- 
plays the philosophic melancholy which so 
generally forms the poetical temperament, ami 
that buoyant and ambitious spirit which indi- 
cates a mind conscious of its strength. At 
Irvine, Burns at this time possessed a single 
loom for his lodgings, rented perhaps at the rate 
of a shilling a week. He passed his days in 
constant labour as a flax dresser, and his food 
consisted chiefly of oatmeal sent to him from 
his father's family. The store of this humble, 
though wholesome nutriment, it appears was 
nearly exhausted, and he was about to borrow 
till he should obtain a supply. Yet even in 
this situation, his active imagination had form- 
ed to itself pictures of eminence and distinc- 
tion. His despair of making a figure in the 
world, shows how ardently he wished for ho- 
nourable fame ; and his contempt of life, found- 
ed on this despair, is the genuine expression 
of a youthful generous mind. In such a state 
of reflection, and of suffering, the imagination 
of Burns naturally passed the dark boundaries 
of our earthly horizon, and rested on those 
beautiful representations of a better world,, 
where there is neither thirst, nor hunger, nor 
sorrow, and where happiness shall be in pro- 
portion to the capacity of happiness. 

Such a disposition is far from being at vari- 
ance with social enjoyments. Those who have 
studied the affinities of mind, know that a 
melancholy of this description, after a while, 
seeks relief in the endearments of society, and 
that it has no distant connection with the flow 
of cheerfulness, or even the extravagance of 
mirth. It was a few days after the writing of 
this letter that our poet, "in giving a welcoming 
carousal to the new year, with his gay compa- 
nions," suffered his flax to catch lire, and his 
shop to be consumed to ashes. 

The energy of Burns' mind was not exhaust- 
ed by his daily labours, the effusions of his 
muse, his social pleasures, or his solitary medi- 
tations. Some time previous to his engage, 
ment as a flax- dresser, having heard that a de 
bating club had been established in Ayr, he 
resolved to trv how such a meeting would sn»- 



xliv 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 



reed in the village of Tarbolton. About the 
end of the year 1780, our poet, bis brother, 
mid five other young peasants of the neigh- 
bourhood, formed themselves into a society of 
this sort, the declared objects of which were 
to relax themselves after toil, to promote so- 
ciality and friendship, and to improve the 
mind. The laws and regulations were furnish- 
ed by Burns. The members were to meet 
after the labours of the day were over, once 
a-week, in a small public-house in the village ; 
where each should offer his opinion on a given 
question or subject, supporting it by such argu- 
ments as he thought proper. The debate was 
to be conducted with order and decjrum ; and 
after it was finished, the members were to choose 
a subject for discussion at the ensuing meeting. 
The sum expended by each, was not to exceed 
three pence ; and, with the humble potation 
that this could procure, they wwe to toast 
their mistresses, and to cultivate friendship 
with each other. This society continued its 
meetings regularly for some time ; and in the 
autumn of 1782, wishing to preserve some ac- 
counts of their proceedings, they purchased a 
hook, into which their laws and regulations 
were copied, with a preamble, containing a«horf, 
history of their transactions down to thatperiod. 
This curious document, which is evidently the 
work of our poet, has been discovered, and it 
deserves a place in his memoirs. 

" History of the Rise, Proceedings, and Regu- 
lations of the Bachelor's Club. 

' Of birth or blood we do not boast, 
Nor gentry dues our club ahVd ; 
But ploughmen and mechanics we 
In Nature's simple dress record.' 

" As the great end of human society is to 
become wiser and better, this ought therefore 
to be the principal view of every man in every 
station of life. But as experience has taught 
us, that such studies as inform the head and 
mend the heart, when long continued, are apt 
to exhaust the faculties of the mind, it has 
been found proper to relieve and unbend the 
mind by some employment or another, that 
may be agreeable enough to keep its powers 
m exercise, but at the same time not so seri- 
ous as to exhaust them. But superadded to 
this, by far the greater part of mankind are 
under the necessity of earning the sustenance of 
human life by the labour of their bodies, where- 
by, not only the faculties of the mind, but the 
nerves and sinews of the body, are so fatigued, 
that it is absolutely necessary to have recourse 
to some amusement or diversion, to relieve the 
wearied man worn down with the necessary 
labours of life. 

" As the best of things, however, have been 
perverted to the worst of purposes, so, under 
the pretence of amusement and diversion, men 
have plunged into all the madness of riot and 
dissipation ; and instead of attending to the 



grand design of human life, they have begun 
with extravagance and folly, and ended with. 
guilt and wretchedness. Impressed with these 
considerations, we, the following lads in the 
parish of Tarbolton, viz. Hugh Reid, Robert 
Burns, Gilbert Burns, Alexander Brown, 
Walter Mitchel, Thomas Wright, and Wil- 
liam M'Gavin, resolved, for our mutual enter, 
tainment, to unite ourselves into a club, or 
society, under such rules and regulations, that 
while we should forget our cares and labours 
in mirth and diversion, we might not transgress 
the bounds of innocence and decorum : and 
after agreeing on these, and some other regu- 
lations, we held our first meeting at Tarbolton, 
in the house of John Richard, upon-the even- 
ing of the 11th of November, 1780, commonly 
called Hallowe'en, and after choosing Robert 
Burns president for the night, we proceeded 
to debate on this question, — ' Suppose a young 
man, bred a farmer, but without any fortune, 
has it in his power to marry either of" two wo- 
men, the one a girl of large fortune, but nei- 
ther handsome in person, nor agreeable in 
conversation, but who can manage the house- 
hold affairs of a farm well enough ; the other 
of them a girlevery way agreeable in person, 
conversation, and behaviour, but without any 
fortune : which of them shall he choose ?' 
Finding ourselves very happy in our society, 
we resolved to continue to meet once a month 
in the same house, in the way and manner 
proposed, and shortly therealter we chose 
Robert Ritchie for another member. In 
May, 1781, we brought in David Sillar,* and 
in June, Adam Jamaison as members. About 
the beginning of the year 1782, we admitted 
Matthew Patterson, and John Orr, and in 
June following we chose James Patterson as 
a proper brother for such a society. The club 
being thus increased, we resolved to meet at 
Tarbolton on the race night, the July follow- 
ing, and have a dance in honour of our society. 
Accordingly we did meet, each one with a 
partner, and spent the evening in such inno- 
cence and merriment, such cheerfulness and 
good humour, that every brother will long 
remember it with pleasure and delight." To 
this preamble are subjoined the rules and re- 
gulations.! 



1st. The flub shall meet at Tarbolton every fourti 
Monday night, when a question on any subject shall be 
proposed, disputed points of religion only excepted, in 
the manner hereafter directed ; which question is to be 
debated in the club, each member taking whatever side 
h" thinks proper. 

2d. When the club is met, the president, or, he failing", 
some one of the members, till he come, shall take his 
seat; then the other members shall seat themselves; 
those who are for one side of the question, oil the pre- 
sident's right hand ; and those who are for the other 
side, on his left ; which of them shall have the right 
hand is to be determined by the president The presi- 
dent and four of the members beiiig present shall have 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 



The philosophical mind will dwell with 
interest and pleasure on an institution that 
combined so skilfully the means of instruction 
and of happiness ; and if grandeur look down 
with a smile on these simple annals, let us 



power to transact any ordinary part of the society's 

3d. The club met and seated, the president shall read 
the question out of the club's book <>f records, (which 
book is always to he kept by the president) then the 
two members" nearest the pre-ident shall cast lots who 
of them shall speak first, and according as the lot shall 
determine, the member nearest the president on that 
side shall deliver his opinion, and the member nearest 
on the other side shall reply to him ; then the second 
member of the side that spoke first ; then the second 
member of the side that spoke second, and so on to the 
end of the company ; hut if there he fewer members on 
the one side than on the other, when all the members 
of the least side have spoken according- to their places, 
any of them, as they please among: themselves, may 
reply to the remaining- members of the opposite side; 
when both sides have spoken, the president shall give 
his opinion, alter which they may go over it a second 
or more times, and so continue the question. 

4th. The club shall then proceed to the choice of a 
question for the subject ot next night's meeting The 
president shall first propose one, and any other member 
who chooses may propose more questions ; and what- 
ever one of them is most agreeable to the majority of 
the members, shall be the subject of debate next club, 
night 

5th. The elnb shall, lastly, elect a new president for 
the next meeting ; the president shall first name one, 
then any of the club may name another, and whoever 
of them has the majority of vote.-. shall he duly elected ; 
allowing the president the first vote, and the casting 
vote upon a par, but none other. Then after a general 
toast to mistresses of the club, they shall dismiss. 

6th. There shall be no private conversation carried 
on during the time of debate, nor shall any member in. 
tcrrupt another while he is speaking, under the penalty 
of a reprimand from the president, for the first fault, 
doubling Ids share of the reckoning for the second, tre- 
eling it for the third, and so on in proportion for every 
other fault; provided always, however, that any mem- 
ber may speak at any time after leave asked and given 
by the president. All swearing and profane language, 
and particularly all obscene ami indecent conversation, 
is strictly prohibited, under the same penalty as afore- 
said in the first clause of this article. 

7th. No member, on any pretence whatever, shall 
mention any of the club's affairs to any other person but 
a brother member, under the pain of being excluded ; 
and particularly, if any member shall reveal any ot the 
speeches or affans ot the club, with a view to rid'c.ule 
or laugh at any of the rest of the members, he shall be 
for ever excommunicated from the society ; and the 
rest of the members are desired, as much as possible, to 
avoid, and have no communication with him as a friend 



nrade. 

8th. Every member shall attend at the meetings, 
without he can give a proper excuse for not attending; 
and it is desired that every one who cannot attend will 
send his excuse with some other member ; and he who 
shall be absent three meetings without sending such 
excuse, shall be summoned to the club-night, when, if 
he fail to appear, or send au excuse, he shall be ex- 
cluded. 

9th. The cub snail not consist of more than sixteen 
members, all bachelors, belonging to the parish of Tar- 
bolton ; except a brother member marry, and in that 
case he may be continued, if the majority of the club 
think proper. No person shall he admitted a member 
of this society, without the unanimous consent of the 
elub; and any member may withdraw from the club 
altogether, by giving notice to the president in writ- 
ing of his departure. 

Kith l-'.very man proper for a member of this society, 
must have a (rank, honest, open heart ; above any thing 
dirty or mean, and must be a professed lover of one or 
more of the female sex. No haughty, self-conceited 
person, who looks upon himself as superior to the rest 
of the club, and especially no mean-spirited, worldly 
Itortal, whose only will is to heap up money, shall upon 
fcliy pretence whatever be admitted. In short, the pro- 



trust that it will be a smile of benevolence and 
approbation. It is with regret that the seqm -1 
of the history of the Bachelor's Club of Tur- 
bolton must be told. It survived several 
years after our pott removed from Ayrshire, 
but no longer sustained by his talents, or 
cemented by bis social affections, its meetings 
lost much of their attraction ; and at length, 
in an evil hour, dissension arising amongst its 
members, the institution was given up, and the 
records committed to the flames. Happily the 
preamble and the regulations were spared ; 
and, as matter of instruction and of example, 
they are transmitted to posterity. 

After the family of our bard removed from 
Tarbolton to the neighbourhood of Mauchline, 
he and his brother were requested to assist in 
forming a similar institution there. The 
regulations of the club at Mauchline were 
nearly the same as those of the club at Tar- 
bolton ; but one laudable alteration was made. 
The fines for non-attendance had at Tarbolton 
been spent in enlarging their scanty potations : 
at Mauchline it was fixed, that the money so 
arising, should be set apart for the purchase of 
books ; and the first work procured in this 
manner was the Mirror, the separate numbers 
of which were at that time recently collected 
and published in volumes. After it followed 
a number of other works, chiefly of the same 
nature, and among these the Lounger. The 
society of Mauchline still subsists, and was in 
the list of subscribers to the first edition of 
the works of its celebrated associate. 

The members of these two societies were 
originally all young men from the country, and 
chiefly sons of farmers ; a description of per- 
sons in the opinion of our poet, more agreeable 
in their manners, more virtuous in their conduct, 
and more susceptible of improvement, than the 
self-sufficient mechanic of country towns. With 
deference to the Conversation-society of Mauch- 
line, it may be doubted, whether the books 
which they purchased were of a kind best adap- 
ted to promote the interest and happiness of 
persons in this situation of life. The Mirror 
and the Lounyer, though works of great merit, 
may be said, on a general view of their contents, 
to be less calculated to increase the knowledge, 
than to refine the taste of those who read them ; 
and to this last object their morality itself, 
which is however always perfectly pure, may be 
considered as subordinate. As works of taste, 
they deserve great praise. They are, indeed, 
refined to a high degree of delicacy •, and to 
this circumstance it is perhaps owing, that they 
exhibit little or nothing of the peculiar manners 
of the age or country in which they were pro- 
duced. But delicacy of taste, though the 
source of many pleasures, is not without som 
disadvantages ; and to render it desirable, tl* 



per person for this society, is a che 
lad, who, if he has a friend that i- 
that is kind, and as much wealth a 
both ends meet— is just as happy as 



xlvi 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 



possessor should perhaps in all cases be raised 
-above the new ssity of bodily labour, unless in- 
deed we should include under this term the ex- 
ercise of the imitative arts, over which taste 
immediately presides. Delicacy of taste may 
be a blessing to him who has the disposal of his 
own time, and who can choose what book he 
shall read, of what diversion he shall partake, 
=and what company he shall keep. To men so 
•situated, the cultivation of taste affords a grateful 
occupation in itself, and opens a path to many 
other gratifications. To men of genius, in the 
possession of opulence and leisure, the cultiva- 
tion of the taste may be said to be essential ; 
since it affords employment to those faculties 
which, without employment, would destroy the 
happiness of the possessor, and corrects that 
morbid sensibility, or, to use the expression ot 
Mr Hume, that delicacy of passion, which is 
the bane of the temperament of genius. Happy 
had it been for our bard, after he emerged from 
the condition of a peasant, had the delicacy of 
his taste equalled the sensibility of his passions, 
regulating all the effusions of his muse, and 
presiding over all his social enjoyments. But 
to the thousands who share the original condi- 
tion of Burns, and who are doomed to pass 
their lives in the station in which they were 
born, delicacy of taste, >vere it even of easy at- 
tainment, would, if not a. positive evil, be at 
least a doubtful blessing. Delicacy of taste 
may make many necessary labours irksome or 
disgusting; and should it render the cultivator 
of the soil unhappy in bis situation, it presents 
no means by which that situation may be im- 
proved. Taste and literature, which diffuse so 
many charms throughout society, which some- 
times secure to their votaries distinction while 
living, and which still more frequently obtain 
for them posthumous fame, seldom procure 
opulence, or even independence, when cultivated 
with the utmost attention, avid can scarcely be 
pursued with advantage by ;he peasant in the short 
intervals of leisure which his occupations allow. 
Those who raise themselves from the condi- 
tion of daily labour, are usually men who excel 
in the practice of some useful art, or who join 
habits of industry and sobriety to an acquain- 
tance with some of the more common branches 
of knowledge. The penmanship of Butter- 
worth, and the arithmetic of Cocker, may be 
studied by men in the humblest walks of life ; 
and they will assist the peasant more in the 
pursuit of independence, than the study of Ho- 
mer or of Shakspeare, though he could com- 
prehend, and even imitate, the beauties of those 
immortal bards. 

These observations are not offered without 
some portion of doubt and hesitation. The 
subject has many relations, and would justify 
an ample discussion. It may be observed, on 
•the other hand, that the first step to improve- 
ment is to awaken the desire of improvement, 
•and that this will be most effectually done by 
such reading as interests the heart and excites 
the imagination. The greater part of the sacred 



writings themselves, which in Scotland are 
more especially the manual of the poor, come 
under this description. It may be farther ob- 
served, that every human being is the proper 
judge of his own happiness, and, within the 
path of innocence, ought to be permitted to 
pursue it. Since it is the taste of the Scottish 
peasantry to give a preference to works of taste 
and of fancy,* it may be presumed they find a 
superior gratification in the perusal of such 
works ; and it may be added, that it is of more 
consequence they should be made happy in their 
original condition, than furnished with the 
means, or with the desire, of rising above it. 
Such considerations are doubtless of much 
weight; nevertheless, the previous reflections 
may deserve to be examined, and here we shall 
leave the subject. 

Though the records of the society at Tar- 
bolton are lost, and those of the society at 
Mauchline have not been transmitted, yet we 
may safely affirm, thatourpoet was a distinguish- 
ed member of both these associations, which 
j were well calculated to excite and to develope 
J the powers of his mind. From seven to twelve 
I persons constituted the society at Tarbolton, 
I and such a number is best suited to the pur- 
i poses of information. Where this is the ob- 
ject of these societies, the number should be 
i such, that each person may have an opportunity 
j of imparting his sentiments, as well as of re- 
ceiving those of others ; and the powers of 
private conversation are to be employed, not 
j those of public debate. A limited society 
j of this kind, where the subject of conversa- 
I tion is fixed beforehand, so that each member 
may revolve it previously in his mind, is per- 
| haps one of the happiest contrivances hitherto 
j discovered for shortening the acquisition of 
j knowledge, and hastening the evolution of 
| talents. Such an association requires indeed 
\ somewhat more of regulation than the rules of 
politeness established in common conversation ; 
or rather, perhaps, it requires that the rules of 
politeness, which in animated conversation are 
liable to perpetual violation, should be vigor- 
ously enforced. The order of speech establish- 
ed in the club at Tarbolton, appears to have 
been more regular than was required in so small 
a society ; where all that is necessary seems to 
be, the fixing on a member to whom every 
speaker shall address himself, and who shall in 
return secure the speaker from interruption. 
Conversation, which among men whom inti- 
macy and friendship have relieved from reserve 
and restraint, is liable, when left to itself, tosc 
many inequalities, and which, as it becomes 
rapid, so often diverges into separate and colla 
teral branches, in which it is dissipated and lost 
being kept within its channel by a simple limi 
tation of this kind, which practice renders easj 



* In several lists of book-societies among the pnorei 
classes in Scotland which the Editor has seen, works ot 
this description form a great part. Ihese societies are 
hy no means general, and it is not supposed that they are 
increasing at present. 



LIFE OF EGBERT BURNS. 



slvii 



and familnr, flows along in one full stream, 
and becomes smoother and clearer, and deeper, 
a3 it flows. It may also be observed, that in 
this way the acquisition of knowledge becomes 
more pleasant and more easy, from the gradual 
improvement of the faculty employed to convey 
it. Though some attention has been paid to 
the eloquence of the senate and the bar, which 
in this, as in all other free governments, is pro- 
ductive of so much influence to a few who ex- 
cel in it, yet little regard lias been paid to the 
humbler exercise of speech in private conver- 
sation, an art that is of consequence to every 
description of persons under every form of 
government, and on which eloquence of every 
kind ought perhaps to be founded. 

The first requisiteof every kind of elocution, 
a distinct utterance, is the offspring of much 
tine, and of long patience. Children are al- 
wiys defective in clear articulation, and so are 
young people, though in a less degree. What 
is called slurring in speech, prevails with some 
persons through life, especially in those who 
are taciturn. Articulation does not seem to 
reach its utmost degree of distinctness in men 
before the age of twenty or upwards : in wo- 
men it reaches this point somewhat earlier. 
Female occupations require much use of speech, 
because they are duties in detail. Besides, their 
occupations being generally sedentary, the re- 
spiration is left at liberty. Their nerves being 
more delicate, their sensibility as well as fancy 
is more lively ; the natural consequence of 
which is, a more frequent utterance of thought, 
a greater fluency of speech, anda distinct arti- 
culation at an early age. But in men who 
have not mingled early and familiarly with the 
world, though rich perhaps in knowledge, and 
clear in apprehension, it is often painful to ob- 
serve the difficulty with which their ideas are 
communicated by speech, through the want of 
those habits, that connect thoughts, words, and 
sounds together ; which, when established, 
seem as if they had arisen spontaneously, but 
which, in truth, are the result of long and pain- 
ful practice, and when analyzed, exhibit the 
phenomena of most curious and complicated 
association. 

Societies then, such as we have been describ" 
ing, while they may be said to put each mem- 
ber in possession of the knowledge of all the 
rest, improve the powers of utterance, and by 
the collision of opinion, excite the faculties of 
reason and reflection. To those who wish to 
improve their minds in such intervals of labour 
a3 the condition of a peasant allows, this method 
of abbreviating instruction may, under proper 
regulations, be highly useful. To the student, 
whose opinions, springing out of solitary ob- 
servation and meditation, are seldom in the 
first instance correct, and which have notwith- 
standing, while confined to himself an increas- 
ing tendency to assume in his own eye the 
character of demonstrations, an association of 
this kind, where they may be examined as they 
arise, is of the utmost importance ; since it 



may prevent those illusions of imagination, 
by which genius being bewildered, science is 
often debased, and error propagated through 
successive generations. And to men who, hav- 
ing cultivated letters or general science in the 
course of their education, are engaged in the 
active occupations of life, and no longer able 
to devote to study or to books the time requi- 
site for improving or preserving their acquisi- 
tions, associations of this kind, where the mind 
may unbend from its usual care* in discussions 
of literature or science, afford the most pleas- 
ing, the most useful, and the most rational of 
gratifications.* 

Whether, in the humble societies of which 
he was a member, Burns acquired much direct 
information, may perhaps be questioned. It 
cannot however be doubted, thatby collision,the 
faculties of his mind would be excited, that by 
practice, his habits of enunciation would be es- 
tablished, andthus wehave some explanation of 
that early command of words and of expression 
whichenabledhim to pour forth his thoughts in 
languagenot unworthy of his genius, and which, 
of all his endowments, seemed, on his appear- 
ance in Edinburgh, the most extraordinary.f 
For associations of a literary nature, our 
poet acquired a considerable relish ; and happy 
had it been for him, after he emerged from 
the condition of a peasant, if fortune had per- 
mitted him to enjoy them in the degree of which 
he was capable, so as to have fortified his prin- 
ciples of virtue by the purification of his taste, 
and given to the energies of his mind habits 
of exertion that might have excluded other 
associations, in which it must be acknowledged 
they were too often wasted, as well as debased. 

The whole course of the Ayr is fine ; bub 
the banks of that river, as it bends to the east- 
ward about .Mauchline, are singularly beautiful, 



When letters uml philosophy w 
eient Greece, the press had not multiplied the tablets of 
learning and science, and necessity produced the habit 
of studying as it were in common. Poets were found 
reciting their own verses in pu blic assemblies : in public 
schools only philosophers delivered their speculations. 
The taste of the hearers, the ingenuity of the scholars, 
were employed in appreciating andexamining the works 
of fancy and of speculai ion submitted to their consider- 
ation, and the irrevocable words were not given to the 
world before the composition, as well as the sentiments, 
were again and again retouched and improved. Death 
alone put the last seal on the labours of genius. Hence, 
perhaps, may be in part explained the extraordinary art 
and skill with which the monuments of Grecian litera- 
ture that remain to us, appear to have been constructed, 
t It appears that our Poet made more preparation 
than might be suppose. I, Curt h .'discussions of thesociety 
at Tarbolton. There was found some detatched memor- 
anda evidentlyprepared for these meetings: and, among 
others, the heads of a speech on the question mentioned 
in p. xliv. in which, as might be expected, he takes 
the imprudent side of the question. The following 
mayserve as afartherspeciraen of the questionsdebated 
in the society at Tarbolton : — " Whether do we derive 
more happiness from love or friendship ? — Whether be- 
tween friends who have no reason to doubt each 
other's friendship, there should be any reserve ?— 
Whether is the savage man, or the peasant of a civil- 
ized country, in the most happy situation? — Whether 
is a young man of the lower ranks of life likeliest to 
lie happy, who has got a good education, and hi3 mind 
well informed, or he who has just the education and 
information of those around him?" 



xlviii 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 



and they were frequenterr, as may be imagined, 
by our poet in his solitary walks. Here the 
muse often visited him. In one of these wan- 
derings, he met among the woods a celebrated 
Beauty of the west of Scotland ; a lady, of 
whom it is said, that the charms of her person 
correspond with the character of her mind. 
This incident gave rise, as might be expected, 
to a poem, of which an account will be found 
in the following letter, in which he enclosed it 
to the object of his inspiration : 

To Miss . 

" Madam, Mossgiel, 18th Nov. 1786. 

; ' Poets are such outre beings, so much the 
children of wayward fancy and capricious 
whim, that I believe the world generally allows 
them a larger latitude in the laws of propriety, 
than the sober sons of judgment and prudence. 
I mention this as an apoiogy for the liberties 
that a nameless stranger has taken with you 
in the enclosed poem, which he begs leave to 
present you with. Whether it has poetical 
merit any way worthy of the theme, I am not 
the proper judge j but it is the best my abili- 
ties can produce ; and what to a good heart 
will perhaps be a superior grace, it is equally 
sincere as fervent. 

" The scenery was nearly taken from real 
life, though I dare say, madam, you do not 
recollect it, as I believe you scarcely noticed 
the poetic reveur as he wandered by you. I 
had roved out as chance directed in the favour- 
ite haunts of my muse, on the banks of the 
Ayr, to view nature in all the gaiety of the 
vernal year. The evening sun was flaming 
over the distant western hills j not a breath 
stirred the crimson opening blossom, or the 
verdant spreading leaf. It was a golden mo- 
ment for a poetic heart. I listened to the fea- 
thered warblers, pouring their harmony on every 
hand, with a congenial kindred regard, and 
frequently turned out of my path, lest I should 
disturb their little songs, or frighten them to 
another station. Surely, said I to myself, he 
must be a wretch indeed, who, regardless of 
your harmonious endeavour to please him, can 
eye your elusive flights to discover your secret 
recesses, and to rob you of all the property 
nature gives you, your dearest comforts, your 
helpless nestlings. Even the hoary hawthorn- 
twig that shot across the way, what heart at 
such a time but must have been interested in 
its welfare, and wished it preserved from the 
rudely- browsing cattle, or the withering eastern 
blast ? Such was the scene, and such the hour, 
when in a corner of my prospect, I spied one 
ot the fairest pieces of Nature's workmanship 
that ever crowned a poetic landscape, or met a 
poet's eye, those visionary bards excepted who 
hold commerce with aerial beings ! Had 
Calumny and Villany taken my walk, they had 
at that moment sworn eternal peace with such 
sn object. 

" What an hour of inspiration for a poet ! Tt 



would have raised plain, dull, historic prose 
into metaphor and measure. 

" The enclosed song was the work of my re-' 
turn home ; and perhaps it but poorly answeri 
what might be expected from such a scene. 



" I have the honour to be, 
" Madam, 
" Your most obedient, and very 
"humble servant, 
"ROBERT BURNS.' 

'Twas even — the dewy fields were green, 

Oil every blade the pearls hang ;* 
The Zephyr wanton'd round the bean, 

And bore its fragrant sweets alang ; 
In every glen the mavis sang, 

All nature listening seemed the while, 
Except, where green-wood echoes rang, 

Aniang the braes o' Ballochmyle. 

With careless step I onward strayed, 

My heart rejoiced in nature's joy, 
When musing in a lonely glade, 

A maiden fair 1 chanc'd to spy; 
Her look was like the morning's eye, 

Her air like nature's vernal smile, 
Perfection whispered passing by, 

Behold the lass o' Ballochmyle !f 

Fair is the mom in flowery May, 

And sweet is night in autumn mild ; 
When roving through the garden gay, 

Or wandering in the lonely wild : 
But woman, nature's darling child ! 

There all her charms she does compile : 
Even there her other works are foil'd 

By the bonny lass o' Ballochmyle. 

O had she heen a country maid, 

And 1 the happy country swain, 
Though sheltered in the lowest shed 

That ever rose on Scotland's plain. 
Through weary winter's wind and rain, 

Willi joy, with rapture, J would toil, 
And nightly to my bosom strain 

The bonny lasso' Ballochmyle. 

Then pride might climb the slippery steep, 

Where fame and honours lofty shine ; 
And thirst of gold rn^ht tempt the deep. 

Or downward seek the Indian mine: 
Give me the cot below the pine, , 

To tend the flocks or till the soil, 
And every day have joys divine, 

With the bonny lass o' Ballochmyle. 

In the manuscript book in which our poet 
has recounted this incident, and into which 
the letter and poem are copied, he complains 
that the lady made no reply to his effusions, 
and this appears to have wounded his self-love. 
It is not, however, difficult to find an excuse 
for her silence. Burns was at that time little 



it Hanir, Scotticism for hung. 
f- Variation. The lily'= hue and n 
HesDoku theias-u'l 



LIFE Of ROBERT BURNS. 



known, and where known at all, noted rather 
for the wild strength of his humour, than For 
those strains of tenderness, in which he after- 
wards so much excelled. To the lady herself 
his name had perhaps never been mentioned, 
and of such a poem she might, not consider 
herself as the proper judge. Her modesty might 
prevent her from perceiving that the muse of 
Tibullus breathed in this nameless poet, and 
that her beauty was awakening strains destined 
to immortality on the banks of the Ayr. It 
may be conceived, also, that supposing the 
verses duly appreciated, delicacy might find 
it difficult to express its acknowledgments. 
The fervent Imagination of the rustic bard 
possessed more of tenderness than of respect. 
Instead of raising himself to the condition of 
the object of his admiration, he presumed to 
reduce her to his own, and to strain this high- 
horn beauty to his daring bosom. It is true, 
Burns might have found precedents for such 
freedoms among the poets of Greece and Rome, 
and indeed of every country. And it is not 
to be denied, that lovely women have generally 
sub.nitted to this sort of profanation with 
patience, and even with good humour. To 
what purpose is it to repine at a misfortune 
which is the necessary consequence of their 
own charms, or to remonstrate with a descrip- 
tion of men who are incapable of control? 

" The lunatic, the lover, and the poet, 

It may be easily presumed, that the beauti- 
ful nymph of Ballochmyle, whoever she may 
have been, did not reject with scorn the adora- 
tions of our poet, though she received them 
with silent modestv and dignified reserve. 

The sensibility of our bard's temper, and 
the force of his imagination, exposed him in a 
particular manner to the impressions of beauty ; 
and these qualities united to his impassioned 
eloquence gave him in turn a powerful inrlu- 
ence over the female heart. The banks of 
the Ayr formed the scene of youth !ul passions 
of a still tenderer nature, the history of which 
it would be improper to reveal, were it even in 
our power, and the traces of which will soon 
be discoverable only in those strains of nature 
and sensibility to which they gave birth 
The song entitled Highland Mary, is known 
to relate to one of these attachments. "It 
was written," says our bard, " on one of the 
most interesting passages of my youthful days." 
The object of this passion died early in lite, 
and the impression left on the mind of Burns 
seems to have been deep and lasting. Several 
years afterwards, when he was removed to 
.Nithsdale, he gave vent to the sensibility of his 
recollections in the following impassioned 
lines ; in the manuscript book from which we 
extract them, they are addressed To Marij in 
Heaven I 

Thou ling'ring star, with less'ning ray, 
That lov st to greet the early morn, 



Auain i1k.ii usher'st in the day 

My Mary from my sou! was torn. 
() Mary ! dear departed shade ! 

Where is thy blissful place of rest ? 
Seest thou ihv "lover lowly laid? 

Hear'st thou the croans'that rend his breast r 
That sacred hour can 1 forget, 

Can 1 forget the hallowed -rove, 



Whe 



y the v 



: day of parting love ! 
Eternity will not efface 

Those records dear of transports past: 
Thy image at our last embrace; 

Ah ! little thought we 'twas our last i 
- Ayr gurglins kissed his pebbled shore, 

'O'eVhung with wild woods thick nino , ,-, . „ 
The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar, 

Twin'd amorous round the raplur'd scene. 
The flowers sprang wanton to he prest, 

The birds sang love on every spray, 
Till too, too soon the glowing west 

Proclaimed the speed of winged day. 
Still o'er these scenes my mem'jy wakes, 

And fondly broods with miser care; 
Time but the impression deeper makes, 

As streams their channels deeper wear. 
My Marv, dear departed shade] 

'Where is thy blissful place of rest/ 
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid? 
Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? 

To the delineations of the poet by himself, 
by his brother, and by his tutor, these additions 
are necessary, in order that the reader may see 
his character in its various aspects, and may 
have an opportunity of forming a just notion 
of the variety, as well as the power of his ori- 
ginal genius.* 

* The history of the poems formerly printed, will be 

found immediately beli.ro the em i e-pnndence between 
Thomson mid Hums.— It is there inserted in tlv> 
word- of Gilbert Hums, who in ;i letter addressed to the 
Editor, has given ihe follow in- account of the friends 
u Inch Kobcri's talent.-, procured him before lie left Ayr- 
shire, or attracted t he notice ol the world. 

" The farm of Mo-sgiel. at the time of our coining- to 
it (Martinmas 1783), was the property of the earl of 
London, hot was held in tack by Mr Gavin Hamilton, 

writer in Main-Mine, ir whom we had our bargain; 

who had thus an opportunity of know ing and showing 
a sincere regard tor mj brother, before he knew that lie 
was a poet. The poet's estimation of him, and the 
strmii! outlines ot his character, may he collected from 
the dedication to this gentleman. When the publica- 
tion was begun, Mr H. entered very warmly into its 
interests, and promoted the. subscription very extensive, 
ly. Mr Robert Aiken, writer in Ayr, is a man of worth 
and taste, of warm affections, and connected with a 
most respectable circle of hiends and relations. It is 
to this gentleman The Cotter's Saturday Night is in- 
scribed. The poems of in v brother, w Inch I have lorinei ly 
mentioned, no sooner came int.. hi- hands, than they 
were quickly known, and well received in the exten- 
sive circle of Mr Aiken's friends, which gave them asort 
of currency, necessary in this w i-e world, even for the 
gooil reception of things valuable in themselves. But 
Mr Aiken not only admired the poet; as soon as he be- 
came acquainted with him, he showed the warmest re- 
gard for the man, and did ever v thing i . hi- power to 
forward bis interest and re.-peclability, The Kp.stle It 



r,,„, 



= «rfwas 



..this 



i,)lr 



A. H. Aiken, now of Liverpool. lie was the oldes 

wit\.' n^i^'-t a^ 

" The Brigs of Ayr is inscribed to John Hallanline, 
Esq. banker in Ayr; one ot those gentlemen to whom 
my brother was introduced by -Mr Aiken, He interest- 
ed himself very warmly in my brother's concerns and 






] 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 



We have dwelt the lenger on the early part 
of his life, because it is tie least known, and 
because, as has already been mentioned, this 
part of his history is connected with some views 
of the condition and manners of the humblest 
tanks of society, hitherto little observed, and 
which will perhaps be found neither useless 
nor uninteresting. 

About the time of leaving his native country, 
his correspondence commences ; and in the 
series of letters now given to the world, the 
chief incidents of the remaining part of his life 
will be found. This authentic, though melan- 
choly record, will supersede in future the ne- 
cessity of any extended narrative. 

Burns set out for Edinburgh in the month 
of November, 1786, and arrived on the second 
day afterwards, having performed his journey 
on foot. He was furnished with a letter of 
introduction to Dr Blacklock, from the gentle- 
man to whom the Doctor had addressed the 
letter which is represented by our bard as the 
immediate cause of his visiting the Scottish 
metropolis. He was acquainted with Mr 
Stewart, Professor of Moral Philosophy in 
the University, and had been entertained by 
that gentleman at Catrine, his estate in Ayr- 
shire. He had been introduced by Mr Alex- 
ander Dalzel to the Earl of Glencairn, who 
had expressed his high approbation of his 
poetical talents. He had friends therefore 
Who could introduce him into the circles of 



fonstantly showed the greatest friendship and attach- 
ment to him. When the Kilmarnock edition was all 
sold oft', and a considerable demand pointed out the pro- 
priety of publishing a second edition, Mr Wilson, who 
had printed the first, was a-ked if he would print the 
second, and take his chance of being paid from the first 
Bale. This he declined; and when this came to Mr 
Ballantine's knowledge, he generously offered to accom. 
modate Robert with what money he might need for 
that purpose ; but advised him to go to Edinburgh, as 
the fittest place for publishing. When he did go to 
Edinburgh, hi- friends advised him to publish again by 
subscription, so that he did not need to accept this offer. 
Mr William Parker, merchant in Kilmarnock, was a 
subscriber for thirty-five copes of the Kilmarnock edi- 
tion. This may perhaps appear not deserving of notice 
here; but if the comparative obscurity of the poet, at 
this period, be taken into consideration, it appears to 
me a greater effort of generosity, than many things 
which appear more brilliant in my brother's future his- 

" Mr Robert Muir, merchant in Kilmarnock, was one 
of tho-e friends Robert's poetry had procured him, and 
one who was dear to hi< heart. This gentleman had no 
very great fortune, orbing line of dignified ancestry: 
but what Robert says of Captiin Matthew Henderson, 
might be said of him u ith great propriety, that he held 
the patent of his hnju.urs immediately from Almighty 
God. Nature had indeed marked him a gentleman iu 
the most legible characters. He died while yet a young 
man, soon after the publication of my brother's first 
Edinburgh edition. .Sir William Cunningham of Ro- 
bertland, paid a very flattering attention, and showed a 
good deal of friend-hip for the poet. Before his going 
to Edinburgh, as well as after, Robert seemed peculiarly 
pleased with Professor Stewart's friendship and con- 

"But of all the friendships which Robert acquired in 
Ayrshire or elsewhere, none seemed more agreeable to 
him than that of Mrs Uunlop, of Dunlop, nor any which 
has been more uniformly and constantly exerted iu be- 
half of him and of his family ; of which", were it proper, 
I could give many instances. Robert was on the point 
of setting out for Edinburgh before Mrs Dunlop had 



literature as well as of fashion, and his own 
manners and appearance exceeding every ex- 
pectation that could have been formed of them, 
he soon became an object of general curiosity 
and admiration. The following circumstance 
contributed to this in a considerable degree. — 
At the time when Burns arrived in Edinburgh, 
the periodical paper, entitled The Lounger, was 
publishing, every Saturday producing a succes- 
sive number. His poems had attracted the 
notice of the gentlemen engaged in that under- 
taking, and the ninety-seventh number of those 
unequal, though frequently beautiful essays, is 
devoted to An Account of Robert Burns, the 
Ayrshire ploughman, with extracts from his 
Poems, written by the elegant pen of Mr 
Mackenzie.* The Lounger had an extensive 
circulation among persons of taste and litera- 
ture, not in Scotland only, but in various parts 
of England, to whose acquaintance therefore 
our bard was immediately introduced. The 
paper of Mr Mackenzie was calculated to in- 
troduce him advantageously. The extracts 
are well selected ; the criticisms and reflections 
are judicious as well as generous ; and in the 
style and sentiments there is that happy deli- 
cacy, by which the writings of the author are 
so eminently distinguished The extracts from 
Burns' poems in the ninety-seventh number of 
The Lounger, were copied into the London, as 
well as into many of the provincial papers, and 
the fame of our bard spread throughout the 



heard of him. About the time of my brother's publish- 
ing in Kilmarnock, she had been afflicted with a long 
and severe illness, which had reduced her mind to the 
most distressing state of depression. In this situation, a 
copy of the printed poems was laid on her table by a 
friend, and happening to open on The Cotter's Saturday 
Night, she read it over with the greatest pleasure and 
surprise : the poet's description of the simple cottagers, 
operating on her mind like the charm of a powerful ex- 
orcist, expelling the demon ennui and restoring her to 
her wonted inward harmony and satisfaction. — Mrs 
Dunlop sent off a person express to Mossgiel, distant 
fifteen or sixteen miles, with a very obliging letter to 
my brother, desiring him to send her half a dozen copies 
of his poems if he had them to spare, and begging he 
would do her the pleasure of calling at Dunlop House 
as soon as convenient. This was the beginning of a cor- 
respondence which ended only with the poet's life. The 
last use he made of his pen was writing a short letter to 
this lady a few days before his death. 

" Col. Fullarton, who afterwards paid a very particu- 
lar attention to the poet, was not in the country at the 
time of his first commencing author. At this distance 
of time, and in the hurry of a wet day, Bnatched from 
laborious occupations, I may have forgot some persons 

which, if it come to my kin 

The friendship of Mrs Dunlop was of particular value 
to Burns. This lady, daughter and sole heiress to Sir 
Thomas Wallace of Craigie, and lineal descendant of the 
illustrious Wallace, the first of Scottish warriors, pos- 
sesses the qualities of mind suited to her high lineage. 
Preserving, iu the decline of life, the generous affections 
of youth ; her admiration of the poet was soon accom- 
panied by a sincere friendship lor the man ; which pur- 
sued him in after life through good and evil report ; iu 
poverty, in sickness, and in sorrow ; and which is con- 
tinued to his infant family, now deprived of their 
parent. 

* This paper has been attributed, but improperly, to 
Lord Craig, one of the Scottish Judges, author of the 
very interesting account of Michael Bruce, in the 36th 
number of the Mirror. 



I shall be heartily 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 



i; 



fblaiui. Of the manners, character, and con- 
duct of Burns at this period, the following ac- 
count has been given by Mr Stewart, in a letter 
to the editor, which he is particularly happy to 
have obtained permission to insert in these 



Professor Dugald Stewart of Edinburgh to Di 
James Currie of Liverpool. 

'■ The first time I saw Robert Burns was on 
the 23d of October, 1786, when he dined at 
my house in Ayrshire, together with our conr 
mon friend Mr John Mackenzie, surgeon in 
Mauchline, to whom I am indebted for the 
p.easure of his acquaintance. I am enabled to 
mention the date particularly, by some verses 
which Burns wrote after he returned home, and 
in which the day of our meeting is recorded. — 
My excellent and much lamented friend, the 
lnte Basil, Lord Daer, happened to arrive at 
Catrine the same day, and by the kindness and 
frankness of his manners, left an impression on 
the mind of the poet, which never was effaced. 
The verses I allude to are among the most 
imperfect of his pieces ; but a few stanzas may 
perhaps be an object of curiosity to you, both 
on account of the character to which they re- 
late, and of the light which they throw on the 
situation and feelings of the writer, before 
his name was known to the public* 

" I cannot positively say, at this distance of 
time, whether, at the period of our first 
quaintance, the Kilmarnock edition of his 
poems had been just published, or was yet in 
the press. I suspect that the latter was the 
case, as I have still in my possession copies, in 
his own hand-writing, of some of his favourite 
performances; particularly of his verses "on 
turning up a Mouse with his plough ;" — " on 
the Mountain Daisy;" and "the Lament." 
On my return to Edinburgh, I showed the 
volume, and mentioned what I knew of the 
author's history, to several of my friends, i 



* This poem is 



s follo\ 



This wot ye all n 

I, Rhymer Robin, alias Burns, 

October twenty-third, 
A ne'er-to-be-forgotten day, 
Sae far I spraekled f up the brae, 

I dinner'd wi' a Lord. 

I've been at drunken writers' J feasts, 
Nay, been bitch fou 'mang godly priests, 

Wi' reverence be it spoken ; 
I've even.join'd the honour'd jorum, 
When mighty Squireships of the quorum, 

Their hydra drouth did sloken. 

But wi* a Lord — stand out my shin, 
A Lord — a Peer— an Earl's son, 
Up higher yet my bonnet ; 
An' sic a Lord — lang Scotch ells tvva, 
Our peerage he o'erlooks them a* 



As I look o'ei 



mnet. 



among others, to Mr Henry Mnckenzie, who 
first recommended him to public notice in the 
97th number of The Lounger. 

" At this time Burns's prospects in life were 
so extremely gloomy, that he had seriously 
formed a plan of going out to Jamaica in a 
very humble situation, not, however, without 
lamenting, that his want of patronage should 
force him to think of a project so repugnant to 
his feelings, when his ambition aimed at no 
higher an object than the station of an excise- 
man or gauger in his own country. 

" His manners were then, as they continued 
ever afterwards, simple, manly, and indepen- 
dent ; strongly expressive of conscious genius 
and worth ; but without any thing that indicat- 
ed forwardness, arrogance, or vanity. He took 
his share in conversation, but not more than 
belonged to him ; and listened with apparent 
attention and deference, on subjects where his 
want of education deprived him of the means 
of information. If there had been a little more 
of gentleness and accommodation in his temper, 
he would, I think, have been still more inter- 
esting ; but he had been accustomed to give 
law in the circle of his ordinary acquaintance ; 
and his dread of any thing approaching to 
meanness or servility, rendered his manner 
somewhat decided and hard. Nothing, perhaps, 
was more remarkable among his various at- 
tainments, than the fluency, and precision, and 
originality of his language, when he spoke in 
company ; more particularly as he aimed at 
purity in his turn of expression, and avoided 
more successfully than most Scotchmen, the 
peculiarities of Scottish phraseology. 

" He came to Edinburgh early in the winter 



And how he stared and stammer'd, 
Whan goavan || as if led wi' branks,! 
An' stumpan on his ploughman shanks, 

He in the parlour hammer'd. 



I sidling shelter'd in a nook, 
An 1 at his Lordship steal't a look, 

Like some portentous omen ; 
Except good sense and social glee, 
An' (what surprised me) modesty, 

I marked nought u 



I watch'd the symptoms o' the Great, 
The gentle pride, the lordly state 

The arrogant assuming ; 
The fient a pride, nae pride had he, 
Nor sauce, nor state that I could see, 

Mair than an honest ploughman. 

Then from his Lordship I shall learn, 
Henceforth to meet with unconcern, 

One rank as well's another ; 
Nae 7wnest worthy man need care, 
To meet with noble youthful Daer, 

For he but meets a brother. 



These lines will he read with no common interest by 
1 who remember the unaffected simplicity of appear, 
ice, the sweetness of countenance and manners, aud 
ie unsuspecting benevolence of heart, of Basil, Lord 
Daer. 



H Walking stupidly. 



HA 



i of bridle. 



Hi 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 



following, and remained there for several 
months. By whose advice he took this step, 
I am unable to say. Perhaps it was suggested 
only by his own curiosity to see a little more 
of the world ; but, I confess, I dreaded the 
consequences from the first, and always wished 
that his pursuits and habits should continue the 
same as in the former part of life ; with the 
addition of, what I considered as then com- 
pletely within his reach, a good farm on moder- 
ate terms, in a part of the country agreeable to 
bis taste. 

" The attentions he received during his stay 
in town from all ranks and descriptions of per- 
sons, were such as would have turned any head 
but his own. I cannot say that I could per- 
ceive any unfavourable effect which they left on 
his mind. He retained the same simplicity of 
manners and appearance which had struck me 
so forcibly when I first saw him in the country ; 
nor did he seem to feel any additional self- 
importance from the number and rank of his 
new acquaintance. His dress was perfectly 
suited to his station, plain and unpretending, 
with a sufficient attention to neatness. If I 
recollect right he always wore boots ; and, 
when on more than usual ceremony, buck-skin 
breeches. 

" The variety of his engagements, while in 
Edinburgh, prevented me from seeing him so 
often as I could have wished. In the course 
Of the spring he called on me once or twice, 
at my request, early in the morning, and 
walked with me to Braid- Hills, in the neigh- 
bourhood of the town, when he charmed me 
still more by his private conversation, than he 
had ever done in company. He was passion- 
ately fond of the beauties of nature ; and I 
recollect once he told me, when I was admir- 
ing a distant prospect in one of our morning 
walks, that the sight of so many smoking cot- 
tages gaye a pleasure to his mind, which none 
could understand who had not witnessed, like 
himself, the happiness and the worth which 
they contained. 

" In his political principles he was then a 
Jacobite ; which was perhaps owing partly to 
this, that his father was originally from the 
estate of Lord Mareschall. Indeed he did not 
appear to have thought much on such subjects, 
nor very consistently. He had a very strong 
sense of religion, and expressed deep regret at 
the levity with which he had heard it treated 
occasionally in some convivial meetings which 
he frequented. I speak of him as he was in 
the winter of 1786-7 ; for afterwards we met 
but seldom, and our conversations turned 
chiefly on his literary projects, or his private 
affairs. 

" I do not recollect whether it appears or 
not from any of your letters to me, that you 
had ever seen Burns.* If you have, it is 
superfluous for me to add, that the idea which 
bis conversation conveyed of the powers of 

:i 



vith Burns. 



his mind, exceeded, if possible, that which is 
suggested by his writings. Among the poets 
whom I have happened to know, I have been 
struck, in more than one instance, with the 
unaccountable disparity between their general 
talents, and the occasional inspirations of their 
more favoured moments. But all the faculties 
of Burns's mind were, as far as I could judge, 
equally vigorous; and his predilection for 
poetry was rather the result of his own enthu- 
siastic and impassioned temper, than of a 
genius exclusively adapted to that species of 
composition. From his conversation I should 
have pronounced him to be fitted to excel in 
whatever walk of ambition he had chosen to 
exert his abilities. 

" Among the subjects on which he was ac- 
customed to dwell, the characters of the indi- 
viduals with whom he happened to meet, was 
plainly a favourite one. The remarks he 
made on them were always shrewd and pointed, 
though frequently inclining too much to sar- 
casm. His praise of those he loved was 
sometimes indiscriminate and extravagant; but 
this, I suspect, proceeded rather from the 
caprice and humour of the moment, than from 
the effects of attachment in blinding his judg- 
ment. His wit was ready, and always im- 
pressed with the marks of a vigorous under- 
standing; bur, to my taste, not often pleasing 
or happy. His attempts at epigram, in his 
printed works, are the only performances, 
perhaps, that he has produced, totally unwor- 
thy of his genius. 

" In summer, 1787, I passd some weeks in 
Ayrshire, and saw Burns occasionally. I 
think that he made a pretty long excursion 
that season to the Highlands, and that he also 
visited what Beattie calls the Arcadian ground 
of Scotland, upon the banks of the Teviot and 
the Tweed. 

" I should have mentioned before, that not- 
withstanding various reports I heard during 
the preceding winter, of Burns's predilection 
for convivial, and not very select society, I 
should have concluded in favour of his habits 
of sobriety, from all of him that ever fell under 
my own observation. He told me indeed 
himself, that the weakness of his stomach was- 
such as to deprive him entirely of any merit ia 
his temperance. I was however somewhat 
alarmed about the effect of his now compara- 
tively sedentary and luxurious life, when he 
confessed to me, the first night he spent in my 
house after his winter's campaign in town, that 
he had been much disturbed when in bed, by 
a palpitation at his heart, which, he said, was 
a complaint to which he had of late become 
subject. 

" In the course of the same season I was 
led by curiosity to attend for an hour or two a 
Masonic-Lodge in Mauchline, where Burns 
presided. He had occasion to make short 
unpremeditated compliments to different indi- 
viduals from whom he had no reason to expect 
a visit, and every thing he said was happily. 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 



lij 



conceived, and forcibly as well as fluently ex- 
pressed. Jf I am not mistaken, he told me, 
that in that village, before going to Edinburgh, 
lie had belonged to a small club of such of the 
inhabitants as had a taste for books, when 
they used to converse and debate on any inter- 
esting questions that occurred to them in the 
•course of their reading. His manner of speak- 
ing in public had evidently the marks of some 
practice in extempore elocution. 

" I must not omit to mention, what I have 
always considered as characteristical in a high 
degree of true genius, the extreme facility and 
good-nature of his taste, in judging of the 
compositions of others, when there was any 
real ground for praise. I repeated to him 
many passages of English poetry with which 
be was unacquainted, and have more than once 
witnessed the tears of admiration and rapture 
with which he heard them. The collection of 
songs by Dr Aiken, which I first put into his 
hands, he read with unmixed delight, notwith- 
standing his former efforts in that very difficult 
-species of writing ; and I have little doubt 
that it had some effect in polishing his subse- 
quent compositions. 

"In judging of prose, I do not think his 
taste was equally sound. I once read to him 
a passage or two in Franklin's Works, which 
I thought very happily executed, upon the 
model of Addison ; but he did not appear to 
relish, or to perceive the beauty which they 
derived from their exquisite simplicity, and 
- spoke of them with indifference, when com- 

• pared with the point, and antithesis, and 
quaintness of Junius. The influence of this 
taste is very perceptible in his own prose com- 

• positions, although their great and various ex- 
' cellencies render some of them scarcely less 

objects of wonder than his poetical perfor- 
mances. The late Dr Robertson used to say, 

• that considering his education, the former 
seemed to him the more extraordinary of the 
two. 

" His memory was uncommonly retentive, 
at least for poetry, of which he recited to me 
frequently long compositions with the most 
minute accuracy. They were chiefly ballads, 
and other pieces in our Scottish dialect; great 
part of them (he told me) he had learned in 
his childhood, from his mother, who delight- 
ed in such recitations, and whose poetical 
taste, rude as it probably wa~, gave, it is pre- 
sumable, the first direction of her son's genius. 

" Of the more polished verses which acci- 

• dentally fell into his hands in his early years, 
he mentioned particularly the recommenda- 
tory poems, by different authors, prefixed to 

• Hervey's Meditations ; a book which has always 
had a very wide circulation among such of the 
country people of Scotland, as affect to unite 
«ome degree of taste with their religious studies. 
And these poems (although they are certainly 
helow mediocrity) he continued to read with 
« degree of rapture beyond expression. He 
took notice of this fact himself, as a proof how 



much the taste is liable to be influenced by ac- 
cidental circumstances. 

" His father appeared to me, from the ac« 
count he gave of him, to have been a respect- 
able and worthy character, possessed of a mind 
superior to what might have been expected 
from his station in life. He ascribed much 
of his own principles and feelings to the early 
impressions he had received from his instruc- 
tions and example. I recollect that he once 
applied to him (and he added, that the passage 
was a literal statement of fact), the two last 
lines of the following passage in the Minstrel, 
the whole of which he repeated with great 
enthusiasm ; 

" Shall I be left forgotten in the dust, 

When fate relenting, lets the flower revive; 
Shall nature's voice, to man alone unjust, 

Bid him, though doom'd to perish, hope to 
live?" 
Is it for this fair. Virtue oft must strive 

With disappointment, penury, and pain? 
No ! Heaven's immortal spring shall yet arrive ; 

And man s majestic beauty bloom again, 
Bright through th' eternal year of love's trium- 
phant reign. 

This truth sublime, his simple sire had taught : 
In sooth Hivas almost all the shepherd knew. 

" With respect to Burns's early education, 
I cannot say any thing with certainty. He 
always spoke with respect and gratitude of the 
school-master who had taught him to read 
English ; and who, finding in his scholar a 
more than ordinary ardour for knowledge, had 
been at pains to instruct him in the grammati- 
cal principles of the language. He began the 
study of Latin, but dropped it before he had 
finished the verbs. I have sometimes heard 
him quote a few Latin words, such as omnia 
vincit amor, &c. but they seemed to be such 
as he had caught from conversation, and which 
he repeated by rote. I think he had a project 
after he came to Edinburgh, of prosecuting 
the study under his intimate friend, the late 
Mr Nicol, one of the masters of the grammar- 
school here ; but I do not know if he ever 
proceeded so far as to make the attempt. 

" He certainly possessed a smattering of 
French; and, if he had an affectation in any 
thing, it was in introducing occasionally a word 
or a phrase from that language. It is possibl 
that his knowledge in this respect might be 
more extensive than I suppose it to be ; but 
this you can learn from his more intimate ac- 
quaintance. It would be worth while to in- 
quire, whether he was able to read the French 
authors with such facility as to receive from 
them any improvement to his taste. For mjr 
own part, I doubt it much — nor would I be- 
lieve it, but on very strong and pointed evi- 
dence. 

" If my memory does not fail me, he was 
well instructed in arithmetic, and knew some- 
thing of practical geometry, particularly of 



Viv 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 



surveying. — All his other attainments were 
entirely his own. 

" The last time I saw him was during the 
winter, 1788-89 ;* when he passed an evening 
with me at Drumsheush, in the neighbour- 
hood of Edinburgh, where I was then living. 
My friend Mr Alison was the only other in 
company. I never saw him more agreeable 
ST interesting. A present which Mr Alison 
sent him afterwards of his Essays on Taste, 
drew from Burns a letter of acknowledgment, 
which I remember to have read with some 
degree of surprise at the distinct conception he 
appeared from it to have formed, of the several 
principles of the doctrine of association. When 
I saw Mr Alison in Shropshire last autumn, 
I forgot to inquire if the letter be still in exis- 
tence. If it is, you may easily procure it, by 
means of our friend Mr Houlbrooke."f 



The scene that opened on our bard in 
Edinburgh was altogether new, and in a va- 
riety of other respects highly interesting, 
especially to one of his disposition of mind. 
To use an expression of his own, he found 
himself " suddenly translated from the veriest 
shades of life," into the presence, and, indeed, 
into the society of a number of persons, pre- 
viously known to him by report as of the 
highest distinction in his country, and whose 
characters it was natural for him to examine 
with no common curiosity. 

From the men of letters, in general, bis re- 
ception was particularly flattering. The late 
Dr Robertson, Dr Blair, Dr Gregory, Mr 
Stewart, Mr Mackenzie, and Mr Fraser 
Tytler, may be mentioned in the list of 
those who perceived his uncommon talents, 
who acknowledged more especially his power in 
conversation, and who interested themselves 
in the cultivation of his genius. In Edin- 
burgh, literary and fashionable society are a 
good deal mixed. Our bard was an acceptable 
guest in the gayest and most elevated circles, 
and frequently received from female beauty and 
elegance, those attentions above all others most 
grateful to him. At the table of Lord Mon- 
boddo he was a frequent guest ; and while he 
enjoyed the society, and partook of the hospi- 
talities of the venerable Judge, he experienced 
the kindness and condescension of bis lovely 
and accomplished daughter. The singular 
beauty of this young lady was illumined by that 
happy expression of countenance which results 
from the union of cultivated taste and superior 
understanding, with the finest affections of the 
mind. The influence of such attractions was 
not unfelt by our poet. " There has not been 
any thing like Miss Burnet," said he in a letter 



• Or rather 1789-90. I cannot speak with confidence 
with respect to the particular year. Some of my other 
dates may possibly require correction, as I keep no 
Journal of such occurrences. 

*■ This letter will be found in pajfe 65. 



to a friend, " in all the combinations of beauty, 
grace, and goodness, the Creator has formed, 
since Milton's Eve on the first day of her ex- 
istence."* In his Address to Edinburgh, she 
is celebrated in a strain of still greater eleva- 
tion : 

" Fair Burnet strikes th' adoring eye, 
Heaven's beauties on my fancy shine ; 

I see the Sire of Love on high, 

And own his works indeed divine !*'f 

This lovely woman died a few years after- 
wards in the flower of her youth. Our bard 
expressed his sensibility on that occasion, in 
verses addressed to her memory, t 

Among the men of rank and fashion, Burns 
was particularly distinguished by James, Earl 
of Glencairn. On the motion of this noble- 
man, the Caledonian Hunt, (an association of 
the principal of the nobility and gentry of Scot- 
land,) extended their patronage to our bard, and 
admitted him to their gay orgies. He repaid 
their notice by a dedication of the enlarged and 
improved edition of his poems, in which he has 
celebrated their patriotism and independence in 
very animated terms. 

" I congratulate my country that the blood of 
her ancient heroes runs uncontaminated ; and 
that, from your courage, knowledge, and public 
spirit, she may expect protection, wealth, and 
liberty. May corrup- 
tion shrink at your kindling indignant glance ; 
and may tyranny in the ruler, and licentious- 
ness in the people, equally find in you an inexo- 
rable foe ! 

It is to be presumed that these generous sen- 
timents, uttered at an era singularly propitious 
to independence of character and conduct, were 
favourably received by the persons to whom 
they were addressed, and that they were echoed 
from every bosom, as well as from that of the 
Earl of Glencairn. This accomplished noble- 
man, a scholar, a man of taste and sensibility,, 
died soon afterwards. Had he lived, and had 
his power equalled his wishes, Scotland might 
still have exulted in the genius, instead of la- 
menting the early fate of her favourite bard. 

A taste for letters is not always conjoined 
with habits of temperance and regularity; and 
Edinburgh, at the period of which we speak, 
contained perhaps an uncommon proportion of 
men of considerable talents, devoted to social 
excesses, in which their talents were wasted 
and debased. 

Burns entered into several parties of this de- 
scription, with the usual vehemence of his char* 
acter. His generous affections, his ardent elo- 
quence, his brilliant and daring imagination, 
fitted him to be the idol of such associations • 
and accustoming himself to conversation of un- 
limited range, and to festive indulgences that 
scorned restraint, he gradually lost some por- 
tion of his relish for the more pure, but less 
poignant pleasures, to be found in the circles 



LIFE OF ROBERT BUR.NS. 



lv 



of taste, elegance, and literature. The sudden 
alteration in his habits of life operated on him 
physically as well as morally. The humble fare 
of an Ayrshire peasant he had exchanged for 
the luxuries of the Scottish metropolis, and 
the effects of this change on his ardent consti- 
tution could not be inconsiderable. But what- 
ever influence might be produced on his con- 
duct, his excellent understanding suffered no 
correspondent debasement. He estimated his 
friends and associates of every description at 
their proper value, and appreciated his own 
conduct with a precision that might give scope 
to much curious and melancholy reflection. He 
saw his danger, and at times formed resolutions 
to guard against it ; but he had embarked on 
the tide of dissipation, and was borne along its 
stream. 

Of the state of his mind at this time, an au- 
thentic, though imperfect document remains, in 
a book which he procured in the spring of 1787, 
for the purpose, as he himself informs us, of 
recording in it whatever seemed worthy of ob- 
servation. The following extracts may serve 
as a specimen : 

Edinburgh, April 9, 1787. 
"As I have seen a good deal of human life 
in Edinburgh, a great many characters which 
are new to one bred up in the shades of life as 
I have been, I am determined to take down 
my remarks on the spot. Gray observes in a 
letter to Mr Palgrave, that, ' half a word fixed 
upon, or near the spot, is worth a cart-load of 
recollection.' I don't know how it is with the 
world in general, but with me, making my re 
marks is by no means a solitary pleasure. I 
want some one to laugh with me, some one to 
be grave with me, some one to please me, and 
help my discrimination, with his or her own 
remark, and at times, no doubt, to admire my 
acuteness and penetration. The world are so 
busied with selfish pursuits, ambition, vanity, 
interest, or pleasure, that very few think it 
worth their while to make any observation on 
what passes around them, except where that 
observation is a sucker, or branch of the darling 
plant they are rearing in their fancy. Nor am 
I sure, notwithstanding all the sentimental 
flights of novel-writers, and the sage philosophy 
of moralists, whether we are capable of so 
intimate and cordial a coalition of friendship, 
as that one man may pour out his bosom, his 
every thought and floating fancy, his very in- 
most soul, with unreserved confidence to an- 
other, without hazard of losing part of that re- 
spect which man deserves from man ; or 
from the unavoidable imperfections attend- 
ing human nature, of one day repenting his 
confidence. 

For these reasons I am determined to make 
these pages my confident. I will sketch every 
character that any way strikes me, to the best 
of my power, with unshrinking justice. I will 
insert anecdotes, and take down remarks, in the 
old law phrase, without. feud or fat our Where 



I hit on any thing clever, my own appLu^ 
will, in some measure, feast my vanity ; and 
begging Patroclus' and Achates' pardon, 1 
think a lock and key a security, at least equal 
to the bosom of any friend whatever. 

" My own private story likewise, my love- 
adventures, my rambles ; the frowns and smiles 
of fortune on my hardship ; my poems and 
fragments, that must never see the light, shall 
be occasionally inserted. — In short, never did 
four shillings purchase so much friendship since 
confidence went first to market, or honesty was 
set up to sale. 

'' To these seemingly invidious, but too just 
ideas of human friendship, I would cheerfully 
make one exemption — the connexion between 
two persons of different sexes, when their 
interests are united and absorbed by the tie of 
love- 
When thought meets thought, ere from the lips 

it part, 
And each warm wish springs mutual from the 
heart. 

There, confidence — confidence that exalts 
them the more in one another's opinion, that 
endears them the more to each other's hearts, 
unreservedly 'reigns and revels.' But this 
is not my lot ; and, in my situation, if I am 
wise (which by the bye I have no great chance 
of being), my fate should be cast with the 
Psalmist's sparrow ' to watch alone on the 
house tops.' — Oh, the pity • 



" Therearefew of the sore evils under the sun 
give me more uneasiness and chagrin than the 
comparison how a man of genius, nay of avowed 
worth, is received every where, with the le- 
ception which a mere ordinary character, de- 
corated with the trappings and futile distinc- 
tions of fortune, meets. I imagine a man of 
abilities, his breast glowing with honest pride, 
conscious that men are born equal, still giving 
honour to whom honour is due ; he meets, at a 
great man's table, a Squire something, or a 
Sir somebody ; he knows the noble landlord, 
at heart, gives the bard, or whatever he is, a 
share of his good wishes, beyond, perhaps, any 
one at table; yet how will it mortify him to 
see a fellow, whose abilities would scarcely 
have made an eightpenny tailor, and whose heart 
is not worth three farthings, meet, with atten 
tion and notice, that are withheld from the sor 
of genius and poverty ? 

" The noble G has wounded me to 

the soul here, because I dearly esteem, respect, 
and love him. He showed so much attention 
— engrossing attention, one day, to the only 
blockhead at table (the whole company 
consisted of his lordship, dunderpate, and my- 
self), that 1 was within half a point of throw- 
ing down my gage of contemptuous defiance; 
but he shook my hand, and looked so bene- 



Jri 



LIFE OF RCBERT BURNS. 



volently good at parting. God bless him 
though I should never see him more, T shall 
love him until my dying day ! I am pleased 
to think I am so capable of the throes of grati- 
tude, as I am miserably deficient in some other 
virtues. 

" With ■ I am more at my ease. I 

never respect him with humble veneration; 
but when he kindly interests himself ; n my 
welfare, or still more when he descends from 
his pinnacle, and meets me on equal ground 
in conversation, my heart overflows with what 
is called liking. When he neglects me for the 
mere carcass of greatness, or when his eye 
measures the difference of our points of eleva- 
tion, I say to myself, with scarcely any emo- 
tion, what do I care for him, or his pomp 
either ?"' 



The intentions of the poet in procuring this 
book, so fully described by himself, were very 
imperfectly executed. He has inserted in it 
few or no incidents, but several observations 
and reflections, of which the greater part that 
are proper for the public eye, will he found in- 
terwoven in the volume of his letters. The 
most curious particulars in the book are the 
delineations of the characters he met with. 
These are not numerous ; but they are chiefly 
of persons of distinction in the republic of 
letters, and nothing but the delieacy and re- 
spect due to living characters prevents us from 
committing them to the press. Though it 
appears that in his conversation he was some- 
times disposed to sarcastic remarks on the men 
with whom he lived, nothing of this kind is dis 
coverable in these- more deliberate efforts of 
his understanding, which, while they exhibit 
great clearness of discrimination, manifest also 
the wish, as well as the power, to bestow high 
and generous praise. 

By the new edition of his poems, Burns ac- 
quired a sum of money that enabled him not 
only to partake of the pleasures of Edinburgh, 
but to gratify a desire he had long entertained, 
of visiting those parts of his native country, 
most attractive by their beauty or their gran- 
deur; a desire which the return of summer na- 
turally revived. The scenery on the banks of 
the Tweed, and of its tributary streams strongly 
interested his fancy ; and, accordingly, he left 
Edinburgh on the 6th of May, 1787, on a tour 
through a country so much celebrated in the 
rural songs of Scotland. He travelled on 
horseback, and was accompanied, during some 
part of his journey, by Mr Ainslie, now writer 
to the signet, a gentleman who enjoyed much 
of his friendship and of his confidence. Of 
this tour a journal remains, which, however, 
contains only occasional remarks on the scen- 
ery, and which is chiefly occupied with an ac- 
count of the author's different stages, and 
with his observations on the various characters 



to wbom be was introduced. In the course of 
this tour fie visited Mr Ainslie of Berrywell, 
the father of his companion ; Mr Brydone, the 
celebrated traveller, to whom he carried a let- 
ter of introduction from Mr Mackenzie ; the 
Rev Dr Somerviile of Jedburgh, the historian ; 
Mr and Mrs Scott of Wauchope ; Dr Elliot, 
physician, retired to a romantic spot on the 
banks of the Roole ; Sir Alexander Don ; Sir 
James Hall of Dunglass ; and a great variety 
of other respectable characters. Every where 
the fame of the poet had spread before him, 
and every where he received the most hospi- 
table and nattering attentions. At Jedburgh 
he continued several days, and was honoured by 
the magistrates with the freedom of their bor- 
ough. The following may serve as a specimen 
of this tour, which the perpetual reference to 
living character*; prevents our giving at large. 

" Saturday, May G. Left Edinburgh — Lam- 
mer-muir hills, mi.-erably dreary in general, but 
at times very picturesque. 

" Lanson-edge, a glorious view of the Merse. 
Reach Berrywell. . . . The family- 
meeting with my compagnon de voyage, very 
charming; particularly the sister. . . . 

"Sunday. Went tochurchat Dunse. Heard 
Dr Bowmaker.' ... 

" Monday. Coldstream glorious river 

Tweed — clear and majestic — fine bridge — dine 
at Colds' ream with Mr Ainslie and Mr Fore* 
man. Beat Mr Foreman in a dispute about 
Voltaire. Drink tea at Lennel-House with 
Mr and Mrs Brydone. . . . Reception 
extremely flattering. Sleep at Coldstream. 

" Tuesday. Breakfast at Kelso — charming 
situation of the town — fine bridge over the 
Tweed. Enchanting views and prospects on 
both sides of the river, especially on the Scotch 
side. . . . Visit Roxburgh Palace — fine 
situation of it. Ruins of Roxburgh Castle — 
a holly-bush growing where James the Second 
was accidently killed by the bursting of a can- 
non. , A small old religious ruin and a fine 
old garden planted by the religious, rooted out 
and destroyed by a Hottentot, a maitre d' hotel 
of the Duke's ! — Climate and soil of Berwick- 
shire, and even Roxburghshire, superior to Ayr- 
shire— :bad roads — turnip and sheep husbandry, 
their great improvements. . . . Low mar- 
kets, consequently low lands — magnificence of 
farmers and farm-houses. Come up the Tevi-^ 
ot, and up the Jed to Jedburgh, to lie, and so 
wish myself good night. 

" Wednesday. Breakfast with Mr Fair. 

. . Charming romantic situation of Jed. 
burgh, with gardens and orchards, intermingles 
among the houses and the ruins of a once magni- 
ficent cathedral. All the towns here have the 
appearance of old rude grandeur, but extremely 
idle. — Jed, a fine romantic little river. Dined 
with Capt. Rutherford, . . . . return to 
Jedburgh. Walked up the Jed with some 
ladies to be shown Love-lane, and Blackburn, 
two fairy scenes. Introduced to Mr Potts, 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 



miter, and to Mr Sommerville, the clergyman 
f>f the parish, a man, and a gentleman, but sad- 
ly addicted to punning. 



"Jedburgh, Saturday. Was presented by 
the magistrates with the freedom of the town. 

" Took farewell of Jedburgh, with some 
melancholy sensations. 

" Monday, May 1 4-, Kelso. Dine with the 
farmer's club — all gentlemen talking of high 
matters — each of them keeps a hunter from 
£30 to £;.0 value and attends the fox hunting 
club in the country. Go out with Mr Ker, 
one of the dub, ;md a friend of Mr Ainslie's, 
to sleep. In his mind and manners, Mr Ker 
is astonishingly like my dear old friend Robert 
]\luir — Every thing in his house elegant. He 
offers to accompany me in my English tour. 

" Tuesday. Dine with Sir Alexander Don ; 
a very wet day. . . . Sleep at Mr Ker's 
again, and set out next day for Melrose — visit 
Dryburgh a fine old ruined abbey, by the 
way. Cross the Leader, and come up the 
Tweed to Melrose. Dine there, and visit that 
far-famed glorious ruin — Come to Selkirk up 
the banks of Ettrick. The whole country 
hereabouts, both on Tweed and Ettrick, re- 
markably stony." 



Having spent three weeks in exploring this 
interesting scenery, Burns crossed over into 
Northumberland. Mr Ker, and Mr Hood, 
two gentlemen with whom he had become ac- 
quainted in the course of his tour, accompani- 
ed him. He visited Alnwick Castle ; . th« 
princely seat of the Duke of Northumberland ; 
the hermitage and old castle of Warksworth; 
Morpeth, and Newcastle. — In this town he 
spent two days, and then proceeded to the 
south-west by Hexham and Wardrue, to Car- 
lisle — After spending a (aw days at Carlisle 
with his friend Mr Mitchell, he returned into 
Scotland, and at Annan his journal terminates 
ebuptly. 

Of the various persons with whom he be- 
came acquainted in the course of this journey, 
he has, in general, given some account ; and 
almost always a favourable one. That on the 
banks of the Tweed and of the Teviot, our 
bard should find nymphs that were beautiful, 
is what might be confidently presumed. Two 
4j f these are particularly described in his journal. 
But it does not appear that the scenery, or its 
inhabitants, produced any effort of his muse, 
hs was to have been wished and expected. 
1'rom Annan, Burns proceeded to Dumfries, 
f.nd thence through Sanquhar, to Mossgiel, 
near Mauchline, in Ayrshire, where he arrived 
hbout the 8th of. June, 1787, after an absence 
of six busy and eventful months. It will be 
tavily conceived with what pleasure and pride 
lie was received by his mother, his brothers, 



and sisters. He had left them poor, and com- 
paratively friendless ; he returned to them high 
in public estimation, and easy in his circum- 
stances. He returned to them unchanged in 
his ardent affections, and ready to share with 
them to the uttermost farthing, the pittance 
that fortune had bestowed. 

Having remained with them a few days, he 
proceeded again to Edinburgh, and immediate- 
ly set out on a journey to the Highlands. Of 
this tour no particulars have been found among 
his manuscripts. A letter to his friend Mi 
Ainslie, dated Arrachas, near Crochairbas, by 
Lochleary, June 28, 1787, commences as fol- 
lows : 

" I write you this on my tour through a 
country where savage streams tumble over 
savage mountains, thinly overspread with sav- 
age flocks, which starvingly support as savage 
inhabitants. My last stage was Inverary — to- 
morrow night's stage, Dumbarton. I ought 
sooner to have answered your kind letter, but 
you know I am a man of many sins." 

F"rom this journey Burns returned to his 
friends in Ayrshire, with whom he spent the 
month of July, renewing his friendships, and 
extending his acquaintance throughout the 
county, where he was now very generally 
known and admired. In August he again 
visited Edinburgh, whence he undertook 
another journey towards the middle of this 
month, in company with Mr M. Adair, now 
Dr Adair, of Harrowgate, of which this 
gentleman has favoured us with the following 
account : 

" Burns and I left Edinburgh together in 
August, 1787. We rode by Linlithgow and 
Carron, to Stirling. We visited the iron- works 
at Carron, with which the poet was forcibly 
struck. The resemblance between that place, 
and its inhabitants, to the cave of Cyclops, 
which must have occurred to every classical 
visitor, presented itself to Burns. At Stirling 
the prospects from the castle. strongly inter- 
ested him ; in a former visit to which, his 
national feelings had been powerfully excited 
by the ruinous and roofless state of the hall in 
which the Scottish Parliaments had frequent- 
ly been held. His indignation had vented 
itself in some imprudent, but not unpoetical 
lines, which had given much offence, and which 
he took this opportunity of erasing, by break- 
ing the pane of the window at the inn on 
which they were written. 

"At Stirling we met with a company of 
travellers from Edinburgh, among whom was 
a character in many respects congenial with 
that of Burns. This was Nicol, one of the 
teachers of the Fligh Grammar- School at 
Edinbuigh — the same wit and power of con- 
versation; the same fondness for convivial 
society, and thoughtlessness of to-morrow, 
characterized both. Jacobitical principles in 
politics were common to both of them ; and 
these have been suspected, since the revolution 
of France, to have given place in each, to 



Ivi 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 



opinions apparently opposite. I regret that I 
nave preserved no memorabilia of tbeir conver- 
sation, either on this or on other occasions, 
when I happened to meet them together. 
Many songs were sung ; which I mention for 
the sake of observing, that when Burns was 
called on in his turn, he was accustomed, in- 
stead of singing, to recite one or other of his 
own shorter poems, with a tone and emphasis, 
which, though not correct or harmonious, 
were impressive and pathetic. This he did 
on the present occasion. 

" From Stirling we went next morning 
through the romantic and fertile vale of Devon 
to Harvieston, in Clackmannanshire, then 
inhabited by Mrs Hamilton, with the younger 
part of whose family Bums had been previous- 
ly acquainted. He introduced me to the 
family, and there was formed my first ac- 
quaintance with Mrs Hamilton's eldest daugh- 
ter, to whom I have been married for nine 
years. Thus was I indebted to Burns for a 
connexion from which I have derived, and ex- 
pect further to derive, much happiness. 

" During a residence of about ten days at 
Harvieston, we made excursions to visit vari- 
ous parts of the surrounding scenery, inferior 
to none in Scotland, in beauty, sublimity, and 
romantic interest ; particularly Castle Camp- 
bell, the ancient seat of the family of Argyle ; 
and the famous cataract of the Devon, called 
the Cauldron Linn ,• and the Rumbling Bridge, 
a single broad arch, thrown by the Devil, if 
tradition is to be believed, across the river, at 
about the height of a hundred feet above its 
bed. I am surprised that none of these scenes 
should have called forth an exertion of Burns's 
muse. But I doubt if he had much taste for 
the picturesque. I well remember, that the 
ladies at Harvieston, who accompanied us on 
this jaunt, expressed their disappointment at 
his not expressing in more glowing and fervid 
language, his impressions o! the Cauldron Linn 
scene, certainly highly sublime, and somewhat 
horrible. 

" A visit to Mrs Bruce of Clackmannan, 
a lady above ninety, the lineal descendant of 
that race which gave the Scottish throne its 
brightest ornament, interested his feelings more 
powerfully. This venerable dame, with charac- 
teristical dignity, informed me, on my observing 
that I believed she was descended from the family 
of Robert Bruce, that Robert Bruce was 
sprung from her family. Though almost de- 
prived of speech by a paralytic affection, she 
preserved her hospitality and urbanity. She 
was in possession of the hero's helmet and 
two-handed sword, with which she conferred 
on Burns and myself the honour of knight- 
hood, remarking, that she had a better right to 

confer that title than some people 

You will of course conclude that the old lady's 
political tenets were as Jacobitical as the 
poet's, a conformity which contributed not a 
little to the cordiality of our reception and 
entertainment. — She gave as her first toast 



after dinner, Awa, Uncos, 01, Away with the?; 
Strangers. — Who these strangers were, you 
will readily understand. Mrs A. corrects me 
by saying it should be Hooi, or Hoohi uncos, a. 
sound used by shepherds to direct their dog* 
to drive away the sheep. 

" We returned to Edinburgh by Kinross 
(on the shore of Lochleven) and Queensferry. 
I am inclined to think Burns knew nothing of 
poor Michael Bruce, who was then alive aC 
Kinross, or had died there a short while be- 
fore. A meeting between the bards, or a visit 
to the deserted cottage and early grave of poor 
Bruce, would have been highly interesting.* 

" At Dunfermline we visited the ruined- 
abbey, and the abbey-church, now consecrated 
to Presbyterian worship. Here I mounted 
the cutty stool, or stool of repentance, assum- 
ing the character of a penitent for fornication ;. 
while Burns from the pulpit addressed to me 
a ludicrous reproof and exhortation, parodied 
from that which had been delivered to himself 
in Ayrshire, where he had, as he assured me, 
once been one of seven who mounted the seat' 
of shame together. 

" In the church-yard two broad flag-stone* 
marked the grave of Robert Bruce, for whose 
memory Burns had more than common vener- 
ation. He knelt and kissed the stone with 
sacred fervour, and heartily fsuus ut mos erat) 
execrated the worse than Gothic neglect of the 
first of Scottish heroes. "f 



The surprise expressed by Dr Adair, in his 
excellent letter, that the romantic scenery of 
the Devon should have failed to call forth any 
exertion of the poet's muse, is not in its nature 
singular; and the disappointment felt at hi* 
not expressing in more glowing language bis 
emotions on the sight of the famous cataract 
of that river, is similar to what was felt by the- 
friends of Burns on other occasions of the 
same nature. Yet the inference that Dr Adair 
seems inclined to draw from it, that he had' 
little taste for the picturesque, might be ques- 
tioned, even if it stood uncontroverted by other 
evidence. The muse of Burns was in a high 
degree capricious ; she came uncalled, and* 
often refused to attend at his bidding. Of all 
the numerous subjects suggested to him by his< 
friends and correspondents, there is scarcely 
one that he adopted. The very expectation 
that a particular occasion would excite the- 
energies of fancy, if communicated to Burns, 
seemed in him, as in other poets, destructive 
of the effect expected. Hence perhaps it may 
be explained, why the banks of the Devon and 
the Tweed form no part of the subjects of hia- 
song. 

A similar train of reasoning may perhaps- 
explain the want of emotion with which ha 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 



l'X 



viewed the Cauldron Linn. Certainly there 
•re no affections of the mind more deadened 
by the influence of previous expectation, than 
those arising from the sight.pf natural objects, 
■nd more especially of objects of grandeur. 
Minute descriptions of scenes, of a sublime 
nature, should never be given to those who 
are about to view them, particularly if they 
are persons of great strength and sensibility of 
imagination. Language seldom or never con- 
veys an adequate idea of such objects, but in 
the mind of a great poet it may excite a pic- 
ture that far transcends them. The imagina- 
tion of Burns might form a cataract in com- 
parison with which the Cuuftlron Linn should 
seem the purling of a rill, and even the mighty 
falls of Niagara a humble cascade. * 

Whether these suggestions may assist in 
explaining our Bard's deficiency of impression 
on the occasion referred to, or whether it 
ought rather to be imputed to some pre-occu- 
pation, or indisposition of mind, we presume 
not to decide ; but that he was in general 
feelingly alive to the beautiful or sublime in 
scenery, may be supported by irresistible evi- 
dence. It is true, this pleasure was greatly 
heightened in his mind, as might be expected, 
when combined with moral emotions of a kind 
with which it happily unites. That under 
this association Burns contemplated the seen 
ery of the Devon with the eye of a genuine 
poet, the following lines, written at this very 
period, may bear witness. 

On a Young Lady, residing on the banks of 
the small river Devon, in Clackmannanshire, 
but whose infant years were spent in Ayrshire- 

How pleasant the banks of the clear-winding 
Devon, 
With green spreading bushes, and flowers 
blooming fair; 
But the bonniest flower on the banks of the 
Devon 
Was once a sweet bud on the braes of the Ayr. 

Mild be the sun on this sweet blushing flower, 
In the gay rosy morn as it bathes in the dew ! 

And gentle the fall of the soft vernal shower, 
That steals on the evening each leaf to renew. 

O spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes, 
With chill hoary wing as ye usher the dawn ! 

And far be thou distant, thou reptile that seizes 
The verdure and pride of the garden and lawn ! 

* This reasoning might be extended, with some mo- 
difications, to objects of sight of every kind. To have 
formed before-hand a distinct picture in the mind, of 
any interesting person or thing, generally lessens the 
pleasure of the first meeting with them. Xhougli this 
picture be not superior, or even equal to the reality, 
still it can never be expected to be an exact resem- 
blance ; and i, appointment felt at finding it — 



duced. In such cases the second or third ii 

gives more pleasure than the first. See the Elements of 
the Philosophy of the Human Mind, by Mr Stewart, p. 
IS4. Such publications as The Guide to the Lakes, 
Where every scene is described in the most minute 
■■ ' ■'■ •>" '' i'le exaggeration 
"" in l of view objectionable. 



Let Bourbon exult in his gay gilded lilies, 
And England triumphant display her proud 
rose; 

A fairer than either dorns the green valleys 
Where Devon, sweetDevon, meandering flows. 

The different journeys already mentioned 
did not satisfy the curiosity of Burns. About 
the beginning of September, he again set out 
from Edinburgh, on a more extended tour to. 
the Highlands, in company with Mr Nicol, 
with whom he had contracted a particular 
intimacy, which lasted during the remainder 
of his life. Mr Nicol was of Dumfries-shire, 
of a descent equally humble with our poet. 
Like him he rose by the strength of his talents,, 
and fell by the strength of his passions. He 
died in the summer of J 797. Having received 
the elements of a classical instruction at his 
parish school, Mr Nicol made a very rapid and 
singular proficiency ; and by early undertaking, 
the office of an instructor himself, he acquired 
the means of entering himself at the Univer- 
sity of Edinburgh. There he was first a stu- 
dent of theology, then a student of medicine, 
and was afterwards employed in the assistance 
and instruction of graduates in medicine, in 
those parts of their exercises in which the 
Latin language is employed. In this situation 
he was the contemporary and rival of the cele- 
brated Dr B rovvn ) whom he resembled in the 
particulars of his history, as well as in the 
leading features of his character. The office 
of assistant teacher in the High- School being: 
vacant, it was, as usual, filled up by competi- 
tion ; and, in the face of some prejudices, and 
perhaps of some well-founded objections, Mr 
Nicol, by superior learning, carried it from all 
the other candidates. This office he filled at 
the period of which we speak. 

It is to be lamented; that an acquaintance- 
with the writers of Greece and Rome does not 
always supply an original want of taste and 
correctness in manners and conduct; and where 
it fails of this effect, it sometimes inflames 
the native pride of temper, which treats with 
disdain those delicacies in which it has not 
learned to excel. It was thus with the fellow- 
traveller of Burns. Formed by nature in a 
model of great strength, neither his person nor 
his manners had any tincture of taste or ele- 
gance ; and his coarseness was not compensa- 
ted by that romantic sensibility, and those 
towering flights of imagination, which distin- 
guished the conversation of Burns, in the 
blaze of whose genius all the deficiencies of* 
his manners were absorbed and disappeared. 

Mr Nicol and our poet travelled in a post- 
chaise, which they engaged for the journey, 
and passing through the heart of the Highlands, 
stretched northwards, about ten miles beyond 
Inverness. There they bent their course east- 
ward, across the island, and returned by the 
shore of the German Sea to Edinburgh. la 
the course of this tour, some particulars of 
which will be found in a letter of our bard, 
page 18, they visited a number of remarkable 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 



scenes, and the imagination of Burns was 
constantly excited by the wild and sublime 
«cenery through which he passed. Of this, 
several proofs may be found in the poems for- 
merly printed.* Of the history of one of 
these poems, The humble Petition of Bruur 
Water, page 150, and of the bard's visit to 
Athole House, some particulars will be found 
in Letters No. 33. and No. 3i : and by the 
favour of Mr Walker of Perth, then residing 
in the family of the Duke of Athole, we are 
enabled to give the following additional ac- 
count. 

" On reaching Blair, he sent me notice of 
his arrival (as I had been previously acquainted 
•with him), and I hastened to meet him at the 
inn. The Duke, to whom he brought a letter 
of introduction, was from home ; but the 
Duchess, being informed of his arrival, gave 
him an invitation to sup and sleep at Athole 
House. He accepted the invitation ; but, as 
the hour of supper was at some distance, 
begged I would in the interval be his guide 
through the grounds. It was already growing 
dark ; yet the softened, though faint and un- 
certain, view of their beauties, which the 
moonlight afforded us, seemed exactly suited 
to the state of his feelings at the time. I had 
often, like others, experienced the pleasures 
which arise from the sublime or elegant land- 
scape, but I never saw those feelings so intense 
as in Burns. When we reached a rustic hut 
on the river Tilt, where it is overhung by a 
woody precipice, from which there is a noble 
water-fall, he, threw himself on the heathy seat, 
and gave himself up to a tender, abstracted, 
and voluptuous enthusiasm of imagination. 
I cannot help thinking it might have been 
here that he conceived the idea of the follow- 
ing lines, which he afterwards introduced into 
liis poem on Bruar Water, when only fancy- 
ing such a combination of objects as were now 
present to his eye. 

Or, by the reaper's nightly beam, 
Mild, chequering through the trees, 

Rave to my darkly-dashing stream, 
11 oarse-swelling on the breeze. 

" It was with much difficulty I prevailed on 
faim to quit this spot, and to be introduced in 
proper time to supper. 

" My curiosity was great to see how he 
would conduct himself in company so different 
from what he had been accustomed to.f His 
manner was unembarrassed, plain, and firm. 
He appeared to have complete reliance on his 



J • See " Lines on seeing some water-fowl in Loch 
STurit, a wild scene among the hills of Ochtertyre," p. 
151. " Lines written with a Pencil over the chimney- 
ciece, in the Inn at Kenmore, Taymouth," p.. 151. 
« Lines written with a pencil standing by the Fall of 
Tyres, near Luchness," p, 152. 

f In the preceding winter, Burns had been in com- 
pany of the highest rank in Edinburgh; but this de- 
scription of his manners is perfoctly applicable to his 
first appearance in such .society. 



own native good sense for directing his beha- 
viour. He seemed at once to perceive and to> 
appreciate what was due to the company and 
to himself, and never to forget a proper respect 
for the separate species of dignity belonging 
to each. He did not arrogate conversation, 
but, when led into it, he spoke with ease, pro- 
priety, and manliness. He tried to exert his 
abilities, because he knew it was ability alone 
gave him a title to be there. The Duke's fine 
young family attracted much of his admiration ; 
he drank their healths as honest men and bonnie 
lasses, an idea which was much applauded by 
the company, and with which he has very feli- 
citously closed his poem.* 

" Next day I took a ride with him through 
some of the most romantic parts of that 
neighbourhood, and was highly gratified by his 
conversation. As a specimen of his happiness 
of conception and strength of expression, I 
,vill mention a remark which he made on his 
fellow-traveller, who was walking at the time 
a few paces before us. He was a man of a 
robust but clumsy person; and while Burns 
was expressing to me the value he entertained 
for him, on account of his vigorous talents, 
although they were clouded at times by coarse- 
ness of mariners ; " in short," he added, " his 
mind is like his body, he has a confounded 
strong in-knee'd sort of a soul." 

" Much attention was paid to Burns both 
before and after the Duke's return, of which 
he was perfectly sensible, without being vain ; 
and at his departure I recommended to him, 
as the most appropriate return he could make, 
to write some descriptive verses on any of the 
scenes with which he had been so much de- 
lighted. After leaving Blair, he, by the 
Duke's advice, visited the Falls of Bruar, and 
in a few days I received a htter from Inver- 
ness, with the verses enclosed. "-f- 

It appears that the impression made by our 
poet on the noble family of Athole was in a high 
degree favourable . it is certain he was charmed 
with the reception he received from them, and 
he often mentioned the two days he spent at 
A thole-house as among the happiest of his life. 
He was warmly invited to prolong his stay, but 
sacrificed his inclinations to his engagement 
with Mr Nicol ; which is the more to be re- 
gretted, as he would otherwise have been intro- 
duced to Mr Dundas (then daily expected on a 
visit to the Duke), a circumstance that might 
have had a favourable influence on Burns's 
future fortunes. At A thole-house, he met 
for the first time, Mr Graham of Fintry, to 
whom he was afterwards indebted for his office 
in the Excise. 

The letters and poems which he addressed 



• See p. 151. 

t Extract of a letter from Mr WalKer to Mr Cun. 
ningham, dated Perth, 24th Octnber, 1797 

The letter mentioned as written to Mr Walker by 
Mr Burns, will be found in p. IS. Mr Walker will, it 
is hoped, have the goodness to excuse the printing of 
his reply (without his permission), p. 20. 



LIFE OP" ROBERT BURNS. 



ro Mr Graham, bear testimony of bis sensibi- 
lity, and justify the supposition, that he would 
not have been deficient in gratitude had he 
been elevated to a situation better suited to 
his disposition and to his talents.* 

A few days after leaving Blair of Athole. 
our poet and his fellow-traveller arrived at 
Fochabers. In the course of the preceding 
winter Burns had been introduced to the 
Duchess of Gordon at Edinburgh, and pre- 
suming on this acquaintance, he proceeded to 
Gordon Castle, leaving Mr Nicol at the inn in 
the village. At the castle our poet was re- 
ceived with the utmost hospitality and kind- 
ness, and the family being about to sit down 
to dinner, he was invited to take his place at 
table as a matter of course. This invitation 
he accepted, and after drinking a few glasses 
of wine, he rose up and proposed to withdraw. 
On being pressed to stay, he mentioned, for 
the first time, his engagement with his fellow- 
traveller; and his noble host offering to send 
a servant to conduct Mr Nicol to the castle, 
Burns insisted on undertaking that office him- 
self. He was, however, accompanied by a 
fentleman, a particu'ar acquaintance of the 
)uke, by whom the invitation was delivered 
in all the forms of politeness. The invitation 
came too late ; the pride of Nicol was inflamed 
to a high degree of passion, by the neglect 
which he had already suffered. He had ordered 
the horses to be put to the carriage, being de- 
termined to proceed on his journey alone : and 
they found him parading the streets of Focha- 
bers, before the door of the inn, venting his 
anger on the postillion, for the slowness with 
which he obeyed his commands. As no ex- 
planation nor entreaty could change the pur- 
pose of his fellow-traveller, our poet was 
reduced to the necessity of separating from 
him entirely, or of instantly proceeding with 
him on their journey. He chose the last, of 
these alternatives : and seating himself beside 
Nicol in the post-chaise, with mortification 
and regret, he turned his back on Gordon 
Castle, where he had promised himself some 
happy days. Sensible, however, of the great 
kindness of the noble family, he made the best 
return in his power, by the following poem.f 

I. 

Streams that glide in orient plains 
Never bound by winter's chains ; 
Glowing here on golden sands, 
There commix'd with foulest stains 
From tyranny's empurpled bands : 
These, their richly gleaming waves, 
I leave to tyrants and their slaves ; 
Give me the stream that sweetly laves 
The banks by Castle-Gordon. 



* See the first Epistle to Mr Graham, soliciting an 
employment in the Excise, p. 33; and his second Epis- 
Ue, p 144. 

f Hub information is extracted from a letter of Dr 
Couper of Fochabers to the Editor. 



Spicy forests ever pay, 
Shading from the burning ray 
Hapless wretches sold to toil, 
Or the ruthless native's way. 
Bent on slaughter, blood, and spoil 
Woods that ever verdant wave, 
I leave the tyrant and the slave, 
Give me the groves that lofty brave 
The storms, by Castle-Gordon. 

III. 

Wildly here, without control, 
Nature reigns and rules the whole ; 
In that sober pensive mood, 
Dearest to the feeling soul, 
She plants the forest, pours the flood, 
Life's poor day I'll musing rave, 
And find at night a sheltering cave, 
Where waters flow and wild woods wave, 
By bonnie Castle-Gordon.* 

Burns remained at Edinburgh during the 
greater part of the winter, 1787-8, and again 
entered into the society and dissipation of that 
metropolis. It appears that, on the Slst day 
of December, he attended a meeting to cele- 
brate the birth-day of the lineal descendant of 
the Scottish race of kings, the late unfortunate 
Prince Charles Edward. Whatever might 
have been the wish or purpose of the original 
institutors of this annual meeting, there is no 
reason to suppose that the gentlemen of which 
it was at this time composed, were not per- 
fectly loyal to the king on the throne. It is 
not to be conceived that they entertained any 
hope of, any wish for, the restoration of the 
House of Stuart; but, over their sparkling 
wine, they indulged the generous feelings 
which the recollection of fallen greatness is 
calculated to inspire ; and commemorated the 
heroic valour which strove to sustain it in vain 
— valour worthy of a nobler cause and a hap- 
pier fortune. On this occasion our bard took 
upon himself the office of poet-laureate, and 
produced an ode, which, though deficient in 
the complicated rhythm and polished versifica- 
tion that such compositions require, might, on 
a fair competition, where energy of feelings 
and of expression were alone in question, have 
won the butt of Malmsey from the real lau- 
reate of that day. 

The following extracts may serve as a spe- 
cimen : — 



False flatterer, Hope, away ! 
Nor think to lure us as in days of yore 

We solemnize this sorrowing natal day,. 
To prove our loyal truth— we can no more; 

And, owning Heaven's mysterious swa;> 
Submissive, low, adore. 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 



JI. 



Ye honour'd mighty dead ! 
Who nobly perish'd in the glorious cause, 
Your king, your country, and her laws ! 

From great Dundee, who smiling victory 
led, 
And fell a martyr in her arms, 
(What breast of northern ice but warms?) 
To bold Balmerino's undying name, 
Whose soul, of fire, lighted at Heaven's high 

flame, 
Deserves the proudest wreath departed heroes 
claim.* 

III. 

Not unrevenged your fate shall be ; 

It only lags, the fatal hour; 
Your blood shall with incessant cry 

Awake at last th' unsparing power. 
As from the cliff, with thundering course, 

The snowy ruin smokes along, 
With doubling speed and gathering force, 
Till deep it crashing whelms the cottage in the 

vale ; 
So vengeance .... 

In relating the incidents of our poet's life in 
Edinburgh, we ought to have mentioned the 
sentiments of respect and sympathy with which 
he traced out the grave of his predecessor 
Fergusson, over whose ashes, in the Canon- 
gate church-yard, he obtained leave to erect an 
humble monument, which will be viewed by 
reflecting minds with no common interest, and 
which will awake, in the bosom of kindred 
genius, many a high emotion, f Neither 
should we pass over the continued friendship 
he experienced from a poet then living, the 
amiable and accomplished Blacklock — To his 
encouraging advice it was owing (as has already 
appeared) that Burns, instead of emigrating to 
the West Indies, repaired to Edinburgh. He 
received him there with all the ardour of affec- 
tionate admiration ; he eagerly introduced him 
to the respectable circle of his friends ; he 
consulted his interest ; he blazoned his fame ; 
he lavished upon him all the kindness of a 
generous and feeling heart, into which nothing 
selfish or envious ever found admittance. 
Among the friends whom he introduced to 
Burns was Mr Ramsay of Ochtertyre, to 
whom our poet paid a visit in the autumn 
of 1787, at his delightful retirement in the 
neighbourhood of Stirling, and on the banks 
of the Teith. Of this visit we have the fol- 
lowing particulars : 

" I have been in the company of many men 
of genius," says Mr Ramsay, " some of them 
poets, but never witnessed such flashes of in- 



* In the first part of this ode there is some beautiful 
imagery, which the poet afterwards interwove in a 
happier manner, in the Chevalier's Lament, (See p. 26.) 
But if there were no other rea^.ns for omitting to print 
the entire poem, the want of originality would be suf- 
ficient. A considerable part of it is a kind of rant, for 
which, indeed, precedent may be cited in various other 
•des, but with which it is impossible to go along. 

t See page 21, where the Epitaph will be found, &c. 



tellectual brightness as from him, the impu.se 
of the moment, sparks of celestial fire ! 1 
never was more delighted, therefore, than with 
his company for two days, tete-a-tete. In a 
mixed company I should have made little of 
him ; for, in the gamester's phrase, he did not 
always know when to play off and when to 
play on. ... I not only proposed to him the 
writing of a play similar to the Gentle Shep- 
herd, qualem decet esse sororem, but Scottish 
georgics, a subject which Thomson has by no 
means exhausted in his Seasons. What beau- 
tiful landscapes of rural life and manners might 
not have been expected from a pencil so faith- 
ful and forcible as his, which could have ex- 
hibited scenes as familiar and interesting as 
those in the Gentle Shepherd, which every 
one who knows our swains in the unadultered 
state, instantly recognises as true to nature. 
But to have executed either of these plans, 
steadiness and abstraction from company were 
wanting, not talents. When I asked him 
whether the Edinburgh Literati had mended 
his poems by their criticisms, ' Sir,' said he, 
' these gentlemen remind me of some spin- 
sters in my country, who spin their thread so 
fine that it is neither fit for weft nor woof." 
He said he had not changed a word except 
one, to please Dr Blair."* 

Having settled with bis publisher, Mr Creech, 
in February, 1788, Burns found himself mas- 
ter of nearly five hundred pounds, after dis- 
charging all his expenses. Two hundred 
pounds he immediately advanced to his brother 
Gilbert, who had taken upon himself the 
support of their aged mother, and was strug- 
gling with many difficulties in the farm of 
Mossgiel. With the remainder of this sum, 
and some further eventual profits from his 
poems, he determined on settling himself for 
life in the occupation of agriculture and took 
from Mr Miller of Dalswinton, the farm of 
Ellisland, on the banks of the river Nith, six 
miles above Dumfries, on which he entered 
at Whitsunday, J 788. Having been previous- 
ly recommended to the Board of Excise, his 
name had been put on the list of candidates 
for the humble office of a gauger or excise- 
man ; and he immediately applied to acquiring 
the information necessary for filling that office, 
when the honourable Board might judge it pro- 
per to employ him. 

He expected to be called into service in 
the district in which his farm was situated, 
and vainly hoped to unite with success the 
labours of the farmer with the duties of the 
exciseman. 

When Burns had in this manner arranged 
his plans for futurity, his generous heart 
turned to the object of his most ardent attach- 
ment, and listening to no considerations but 



poems printed before he arrived in Edinburgh j 
tor, in regard to his unpublished poems, he was amena- 
ble to criticism, of which many proofs may be givea" 
See some remarks on this subject, in Appendix 



I.IKE OK ROBERT BURNS. 



lxiii 



those of "honour and affection, he joined with 
ler in a public declaration of marriage, thus 
.egalizing their union, and rendering it perma- 
nent for life. 

Before Burns was known in Edinburgh, a 
specimen of his poetry had recommended him 
to Mr Miller of Dalswinton. Understand- 
ing that he intended to resume the life of a 
farmer, Mr Miller had invited him in the 
•spring of 1787, to view his estate in Niths- 
dale, offering him at the same time the choice 
of any of his farms out of lease, at such a 
rent as Burns and his friends might judge pro- 
per. It was not in the nature of Burns to 
take an undue advantage of the liberality of 
Mr Miller. He proceeded in this business, 
however, with more than usual deliberation. 
Having made choice of the farm of Ellisland, 
he erriDloyed two of his friends skilled in the 
value of land, to examine it, and, with their 
approbation, offered a rent to Mr Miller, 
which was immediately accepted. It was not 
convenient for Mrs Bums to remove imme- 
diately from Ayrshire, and our poet therefore 
took up his residence alone at Ellisland, to 
prepare for the reception of his wife and chil- 
dren, who joined him towards the end of the 
year. 

The situation in which Burns now found 
himself was calculated to awaken reflection. 
The different steps he had of late taken were 
in their nature highly important, and might be 
said to have, in some measure, fixed his destiny. 
He had become a husband and a father ; he 
had engaged in the management of a consi- 
derable farm, a difficult and laborious under- 
taking; in his success the happiness of his 
family was involved ; it was time, therefore, 
to abandon the gaiety and dissipation of which 
he had been too much enamoured ; to ponder 
seriously on the past, and to form virtuous re- 
solutions respecting the future. That such 
was actually the state of his mind, the follow- 
ing extract from his common-place book may 
bear witness : — 

« Ellisland, Sunday, litk June, 1788. 
" This is now the third day that I have been 
in this country. ' Lord, what is man !' What 
a bustling little bundle of passions, appetites, 
ideas, and fancies ! and what a capricious kind 
of existence he has here ! . . There is 
indeed an elsewhere, where, as Thomson says, 
virtue sole survives. 

" Tell us, ye dead : 
"Will none of you in pity disclose the secret, 
"What 'tis you are, and we must shortly be ? 

A little time 
Will make us wise as you are, and as close." 

" I am such a coward in life, so tired of 
the service, that I would almost at any time, 
with Milton's Adam, ' gladly lay me in my 
mother's lap, and be at peace.' 

" But a wife and children bind me to strug- 
gle with the stream, till some sudden squal 



shall overset the silly vessel, or in the listless 
return of years, its own craziness reduce it to 
a wreck. Karewell now to those giddy follies, 
those varnished vices, which, though half- 
sanctified by the bewitching levity of wit and 
humour, are at best but thriftless idling with 
the precious current of existence ; nay, often 
poisoning the whole, that, like the plains of 
Jericho, the wutei is naught and the ground 
barren, and nothing short of a supernaturally- 
gifted Elisha can ever after heal the evils. 

" Wedlock, the circumstance that buckles 
me hardest to care, if virtue and religion were 
to be any thing with me but names, was what 
in a few seasons I must have resolved on ; in 
my present situation it was absolutely neces- 
sary. Humanity, generosity, honest pride of 
character, justice to my own happiness for 
after life, so far as it could depend (which it 
surely will a great deal) on internal peace ; all 
these joined their warmest suffrages, their most 
powerful solicitations, with a rooted attach- 
ment, to urge the step I have taken. Nor 
have I any reason on her part to repent it. — 
I can fancy how, but have never seen where, 
I could have made a better choice. Come, 
then, let me act up to my favourite motto, 
that glorious passage in Young — 

' On reason build resolve, 
That column of true majesty in man !' " 

Under the impulse of these reflections, 
Burns immediately engaged in rebuilding the 
dwelling-house on his farm, which, in the 
state he found it, was inadequate to the ac- 
commodation of his family. On this occasion, 
he himself resumed at times the occupation 
of a labourer, and found neitherhis strength nor 
his skill impaired. — Pleased with surveying the 
grounds he was about to cultivate, and with 
the rearing of a building that should give shelter 
to his wife and children, and as he fondly 
hoped, to his own grey hairs, sentiments of 
independence buoyed up his mind, pictures of 
domestic content and peace rose on his ima- 
gination ; and a few days passed away, as he 
himself informs us, the most tranquil, if not 
the happiest, which he had ever experienced.* 



* Animated sentiments of any kind, almost always 
pave rise in our poet to some production of his muse. 
His sentiments on this occasion were in part expressed 
by the following vigorous and characteristic, though 
not very delicate verse6 : they ar 
ballad. 



n imitation of an old 






I'll partake wi' nae-body; 
I'll fak cuckold frae nane, 
I'll gie cuckold to nae-body. 

I hae a penny to spend, 
There — thanks to nae-body 5 

I hae naething to lend, 
I'll borrow frae nae-body. 

I am nae-body's lord, 
I'll be slave to nae-hody ; 

I hae a guid braid tword, 
I'll tak dunts frae nae-body, 



ixiv 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 



It is to be lamented that at this critical 
period of his life, our poet was without the 
society of his wife and children. A great 
change had taken place in his situation ; his 
old habits were broken ; and the new circum- 
stances in which he was placed were calculated 
to give a new direction to his thoughts and 
conduct.* But his application to the cares 
and labours of his farm was interrupted by 
several visits to his family in Ayrshire ; and 
as the distance was too great for a single day's 
journey, he generally spent a night at an inn 
on the road. On such occasions he sometimes 
fell into company, and forgot the resolutions 
he had formed. In a little while temptation 
assailed him nearer home. 

His fame naturally drew upon him the at- 
tention of his neighbours, and he soon formed 
a general acquaintance in the district in which 
be lived. The public voice had now pro- 
nounced on the subject of his talents ; the re- 
ception he had met with in Edinburgh had 
given him the currency which fashion bestows ; 
he had surmounted the prejudices arising from 
his humble birth, and he was received at the 
table of the gentlemen of Nithsdale with wel- 
come, with kindness, and even with respect. 
Their social parties too often .-educed him from 
his rustic labours and his rustic fare, overthrew 
the unsteady fabric of his resolutions, and in- 
flamed those propensities which temperance 
might have weakened, and prudence ultimately 
suppressed. f It was not long, therefore, be- 
fore Burns began to view his farm with dis- 
like and despondence, if not with disgust. 

Unfortunately he had for several years look- 
ed to an office in the Excise as a certain means 
of livelihood, should his other expectations fail. 
As has already been mentioned, he had been 
recommended to the Board of Excise, and had 
received the instruction necessary for such a 
situation. He now applied to he employed ; 
und by the interest of Mr Graham of Fintra, 
was appointed to be exciseman, or, as it is 
vulgarly called gauger, of the district in which 
ne lived. His farm was, after this, in a great 
measure abandoned to servants, while he betook 
himself to the duties of his new appointment. 

He might indeed still be seen in the spring, 
directing his plough, a labour in which he ex- 



I'Jl be merry and free, 

I'll be sad for nae-body ; 
If nae-body care for me, 
I'll care for nae-body. 

* Mrs Burns was about to be confined in child-bed, 
and the house at Ellisland was rebuilding-. 

f The poem of The Whistle celebrates a Bacchanalian 
contest among- three gentlemen of N.thsdale, where 
Burns appears as umpire. Mr Riddel died before our 
Bard, and some elegiac verses to his memory will be 
found in p. 177. From him, and from all the members 
of his family, Burns received not kindness only but 
friendship ; and the society he met in general at Friar's 
Carse was calculated to improve his habits as well as 
his manners. Mr Ferguson of Craigdarrocli, so well 
known for his eloquence and social talents, died soon 
efter our poet. Sir Robert Laivri.-, the thiid person 
in the drama survives, and has since been eng-aged in 
ror.tests of a bloodier nature. Line mav lie live to fight 
Uie battles of his country '. (17519.) " 



celled ; or with a white sheet containing his- 

seed-corn, slung across his shoulders, striding 
with measured steps along his turned up fur- 
rows, and scattering the grain in the earth, 
but his farm no longer occupied He prin- 
cipal part of his care or his thoughts. It 
was not at Ellisland that he was now in 
general to be found. Mounted on horseback, 
this high-minded poet was pursuing the defaul- 
ters of the revenue, among the hills and valei 
of Nithsdale, his roving eye wandering over 
the charms of nature, and muttering Ids waywuid 
fancies as he moved along. 

" I had an adventure with him in the year 
1790," says Mr Ramsay of Ochtertyre, in a 
letter to the editor, "when passing through 
Dumfries, shire, on a tour to the south, with 
Dr Steuart of Luss. Seeing him pass quickly 
near Closeburn, I said to my companion, * that 
is Bums.' On coming to the inn, the hostler 
told us he would be back in a few hours to 
grant permits ; that where he met with any 
thing seizable he was no better than any other 
gauger, in every thing else, he was perfectly a 
gentleman. After leaving a note to be 
delivered to him on his return, I proceeded to 
his house, being curious to see his Jean, &c. 
I was much pleased \\ kh his uxor Subina qualis, 
and the poet's modest mansion, so unlike the 
habitation of ordinary rustics. In the evening 
he suddenly bounced in upon us, and said as 
he entered, I come, to use the words of Shak- 
speare, stewed in haste. In fact, he had ridden 
incredibly fast after receiving my note. We 
fell into conversation directly, and soon got 
into the mare magnum of poetry. He told 
me that he had now gotten a story for a drama, 
which he was to call Rob Macqueclian , s llshon, 
from a popular story of Robert Bruce being 
defeated on the waterof Caern, when the hee of 
fiis b< ot having loosened in his flight, he ap- 
plied to Robert Macquechan to fix it ; who, 
to make sure, ran his awl nine inches up the 
king's heel. We were now going on at a great 

rate, when Mr S popped in his head j 

which put a stop to our discourse, which had 
become very interesting. Yet in a little 
while it was resumed, and such was the 
force and versatility of the bard's genius, that 

he made the tears run down Mr S 's cheeks, 

albeit unused 10 the poetic strain. 

From that time we met no more, and I was 
grieved at the reports of him afterwards. 
Poor Burns ! we shall hardly ever see his like 
again. He was, in truth, a sort of comet in 
literature, irregular in its motions, which did 
not do good proportioned to the blaze of light 
it displayed." 

In the summer of 1791, two English gentle- 
men who had before met with him in Edinburgh, 
made a visit to him at Ellisland. On calling at 
the house, they were informed that he had walk- 
ed out on the banks of the river ; and dismount- 
ing from their horses, they proceeded in search-. 
of him. On a reck that projected into the 
stream, they saw a man employed in angling, 
of a singular appearance. He had a cap made 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS- 



lx\ 



of i fox's skin on his head, a loose great- coat 
fixed round him byabelt, from which depend- 
ed an enormous highland broad-sword. It was 
Hums. He received them with great cordial- 
ity, and asked them to share his humble dinner 
— an invitation which they accepted. On the 
table they found boiled beef, with vegetables 
and barley-broth, after the manner of Scot- 
land, of which they partook heartily. After 
dinner, the bard told them ingenuously that he 
had no wine to offer them, nothing better than 
Highland whiskey, a bottle of which Mrs 
Burns set on the board. He produced at the 
same time his punch-bowl made of Inverary 
marble, and mixing the spirits with water and 
sugar, filled their glasses, and invited them to 
drink.* The travellers were in haste, and be- 
sides, the flavour of the whiskey to their soul/i- 
ron palates was scarcely tolerable; but the 
generous poet ofTi-red them his best, and his 
ardent hospitality they found it impossible to 
resist. Burns was in his happiest mood, and 
the charms of his conversation were altogether 
fascinating He ranged over a great variety 
of topics, illuminating whatever he touched. 
He related the tales of his infancy and of his 
youth ; he recited some of the gayest and some 
of the tenderest of his poems ; in the wildest 
of his strains of mirth, he threw in touches of 
melancholy, and spread around him the elec- 
tric emotions of his powerful mind. The high- 
land whiskey improved in its flavour; the marble 
bowl was again and again emptied and replen- 
ished ; the guests of our poet forgot the flight 
of time, and the dictates of prudence : at the 
hour of midnight they lost their way in return- 
ing to Dumfries, and could scarcely distinguish 
it when assisted by the morning's dawn.f 

Besides his duties in the Excise and his so- 
cial pleasures, other circumstances interfered 
with the attention of Burns to his farm. He 
engaged in the formation of a society for pur- 
chasing and circulating books among the far- 
mers of his neighbourhood, of which he under- 
took the management ;i and he occupied him- 
self occasionally in composing songs for the 
musical work of Mr Johnson, then in the 
course of publication. These engagements, 
useful and honourable in themselves, contri- 
buted, no doubt, to the abstraction of his 
thoughts from the business of agriculture. 

The consequences may be easily imagined. 
Notwithstanding the uniform prudence and 
good management of Mrs Burns, and though 
his rent was moderate and reasonable, our 
poet found it convenient, if not necessary, to 
resign his farm to Mr Miller; after having oc- 
cupied it three years and a half. His office in 
the Excise had originally produced about fifty 
pounds per annum. Having acquitted himself 
to the satisfaction of the Board, he had been 



* This bowl was made of the stone of which Inverary 
bouse is built, the mansion of the family of Argyle. 
+ Given from the information of one of the party. 
t See p. 52 



appointed to a new district, the emoluments of 
which rose to about seventy pounds per annum. 
Hoping to support himself and his family on 
this humble income till promotion should 
reach him, he disposed of his stock and of his 
crop on Ellisland by public auction, and re- 
moved to a small house which he had taken in 
Dumfries, about the end of the year 1791. 

Hitherto Burns, though addicted to excess 
in social parties, had abstained from the habit- 
ual use of strong liquors, and his constitution 
had not suffered any permanent injury from the 
irregularities of his conduct. In Dumfries, 
temptations to the sin t/iut so easily beset him, 
continually presented themselves ; and his ir- 
regularities grew by degrees into habits. These 
temptations unhappily occurred during his en- 
gagements in the business of his ofiice, as well 
as during his hours of relaxation; and though 
I he clearly foresaw the consequence of yielding 
; to them, his appetites and sensations, which 
: coidd not pervert the dictates of his judgment, 
finally triumphed over all the powers of his 
will. Yet this victory was not obtained with- 
out many obstinate struggles, and at times tem- 
perance and virtue seemed to have obtained the 
mastery. Besides his engagements in the Ex- 
cise, and the society into which they led, many 
circumstances contributed to the melancholy 
fate of Burns. His great celebrity made him 
an object of interest and curiosity to strangers, 
and tew persons of cultivated minds passed 
through Dumfries without attempting to see 
our poet, and to enjoy the pleasure of his con- 
versation. As he could not receive them un- 
der his own humble roof, these interviews 
passed at the inns of the town, and often ter- 
minated hi those excesses which Bums some 
times provoked, and was seldom able to resist. 
And among the inhabitants of Dumfries and 
its vicinity, there were never wanting persons 
to share his social pleasures ; to lead or accom- 
pany him to the tavern ; to partake in the 
wildest sallies of his wit ; to witness the 
strength and degradation of his genius. 

Still, however, he cultivated the society of 
persons of taste and respectability, and in their 
company could impose on himself the restraints 
of temperance and decorum. Nor was hit 
muse dormant. In the four years which he 
lived in Dumfries, he produced many of his 
beautiful lyrics, though it does not appear that 
he attempted any poem of considerable length. 
During this time, he made several excursions 
into the neighbouring country, of one of which, 
through Galloway, an account is preserved in 
a letter of Mr Syme, written soon after , 
which, as it gives an animated picture of him by 
a correct and masterly hand, we shall present 
to the reader. 

" I got. Burns a grey Highland shelty to ride 
on. We dined the first day, 27th July, 1793, 
at Glendenwynes of Parton; a beautiful situa- 
tion on the banks of the Dee. In the evening 
we walked out, and ascendeJ a gentle emi- 
nence, from which we had a line a view of 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 



Alpine scenery hs can well be imagined. A 
delightful soft evening showed all its wilder as 
well as its grander graces. Immediately op- 
posite, and within a mile of us, we saw Airds, 
a charming romantic place, where dwelt Low, 
the author of Mary weep no more for me.* 
This was classical ground for Burns. He 
viewed " the highest hill which rises o'er the 
source of Dee ;" and would have staid till 
* the passing spirit " had appeared, had we not 
resolved to reach Kenmore that night. We 
arrived as Mr and Mrs Gordon were sitting 
down to supper. 

" Here is a genuine baron's seat. The cas- 
tle, an old building, stands on a large natural 
moat. In front, the river Ken winds for se- 
veral miles through the most fertile and beauti- 
ful holm,f till it expands into a lake twelve 
miles long, the banks of which, on the south, 
present, a fine and soft landscape of green 
knolls, natural wood, and here and there a grey 
rock. On the north, the aspect is great, wild, 
and I may say, tremendous. In short, I can 
scarcely conceive a scene more terribly roman- 
tic than the castle of Kenmore. Burns thinks 
so highly of it, that he meditates a description 
of it in poetry. Indeed, I believe he has begun 
the work. We spent three days with Mr 
Gordon, whose polished hospitality is of an 
original and endearing kind. Mrs Gordon's 
lap-dog, Echo, was dead. She would have an 
epitaph for him. Several had been made. 
Burns was asked for one. This was setting 
Hercules to his distaff. He disliked the sub- 
ject; but, to please the lady, he would try. 
Here is what he produced : 

In wood and wild, ye warbling throng, 
Your heavy loss deplore ; 



Ye jarring screeching things around, 

Scream your discordant joys ; 
Now half vour din of tuneless sound 

With Echo silent lies. 

" We left Kenmore, and went to Gatehouse. 
I took him the moor-road, where savage and 
desolate regions extended wide around. The 
sky was sympathetic with the wretchedness of 
the soil ; it became lowering and dark. The 
hollow winds sighed, the lightnings gleamed, 
the thunder rolled. The poet enjoyed the 
awful scene— he spoke not a word, but seemed 
rapt in meditation. In a little while the rain 
began to fall ; it poured in floods upon us. 



thus 



\ beautiful and well-km 



which begins 



The moon had climb'd the highest hill 
Which rises o'er the source of Dee, 
And, from the eastern summit, shed 
Its silver light on tower and tree, 
f The level low ground on the banks of a river or 
stream. This word should be adopted from the Scot- 
tish, as, indeed, ought several others of the same nature. 
That dialect is singularly copious and exact in the de- 
nominations of natural objects. 



For three hours did the wild elements rumble 
their belly-full upon our defenceless heads. 
Oh, oh ! 'twas foul. We got utterly wet ; and 
to revenge ourselves, Burns insisted at Gate- 
house on our getting utterly drunk. 

" From Gatehouse, we went next day to 
Kirkcudbright, through a fine country. But 
here I must tell you that Burns had got a pair of 
jemmy boots for the journey, which had been 
thoroughly wet, and which had been dried in 
such a manner that it was not possible to get 
them on again. — The brawny poet tried force, 
and tore them to shreds. A whirling vexa- 
tion of this sort is more trying to the temper 
than a serious calamity. We were going to 
Saint Mary's Isle, the seat of the Earl of Sel- 
kirk, and the forlorn Burns was discomfited 
at the thought of his ruined boots. A sick 
stomach, and a heart-ache, lent their aid, and 
the man of verse was quite accable. I attempt - 
ed to reason with him. Mercy on us, how he 
did fume and rage ! Nothing could reinstate 
him in temper. I tried various expedients, and 
at last hit on one that succeeded. I showed 
him the house of* • • •, across the bay of 
Wigton. Against • • • *, with whom he 
was offended, he expectorated his spleen, and 
regained a most agreeable temper. He was 
in a most epigrammatic humour indeed! He 
afterwards fell on humbler game. There is 

one whom he does not love. 

He had a passing blow at him. 

When , deceased, to the devil went 

'Twas nothing would serve him but Satan's own 

crown : 
Thy fool's head, quoth Satan, that crown shall 

wear never, 
I grant thou'rt as wicked, but not quite so 

clever. 

" Well, 1 am to bring you to Kirkcudbright 
along with our poet, without boots. I carried 
the torn ruins across my saddle in spite of his 
fulminations, and in contempt of appear- 
ances ; and what is more, Lord Selkirk carried 
them in his coach to Dumfries. He insisted 
they were worth mending. 

" We reached Kirkcudbright about one 
o'clock. I had promised that we should dine 
with one of the first men in our country, J. 
Dalzell. But Burns was in a wild and obstre- 
perous humour, and swore he would not dine 
where he should be under the smallest restraint. 
We prevailed, therefore, on Mr Dalzell to 
dine with us in the inn, and had a very agree- 
able party. In the evening we set out for St 
Mary's Isle. Robert had not absolutely re- 
gained the milkiness of good temper, and it 
occurred once or twice to him, as he rode along, 
that St Mary's Isle was the seat of a Lord ; 
yet that Lord was not an aristocrate, at least 
in his sense of the word. We arrived about 
eight o'clock, as the family were at tea and 
coffee. St Mary's Isle is one of the most de- 
lightful places that can, in my opinion, be form- 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 



lxvn 



fd by the assemblage of every soft but not 
tame object which constitutes natural and cul- 
tivated beauty. But not to dwell on its exter- 
nal graces, let me tell you that we found all 
the ladies of the family (all beautiful,) at home, 
and some strangers ; and among others, who 
but Urbani ! The Italian sung us many Scot- 
tish songs, accompanied with instrumental 
music. The two young ladies of Selkirk sung 
also. We had the song of Lord Gregory, 
which I asked for, to have an opportunity of 
calling on Burns to recite his ballad to that 
tune. He did recite it; and such was the 
effect, that a dead silence ensued. It was such 
a silence as a mind of feeling naturally pre- 

' serves when it is touched with that enthusiasm 
which banishes every other thought but the 
contemplation and indulgence of the sympathy 

' produced. Burns' Lord Gregory is, in my 
opinion, a most beautiful and affecting ballad.* 
The fastidious critic may perhaps say, some 
of the sentiments ana imagery are of too ele- 
vated a kind for such a style of composition ; 
for instance, " Thou bolt of Heaven that pass- 
est by ;" and, " Ye mustering thunder," &c. ; 
but this is a cold-blooded objection, which will 
be said rather than /eft. 

" We enjoyed a most happy evening at Lord 
Selkirk's. We had, in every sense of the word, 
a feast, in which our minds and our senses 
were equally gratified. The poet was delight- 
ed with his company, and acquitted himself to 
admiration. The lion that had raged so vio- 
lently in the morning, was now as mild and 
gentle as a lamb. Next day we returned to 
Dumfries, and so ends our peregrination. I 

• told you, that in the midst of the storm, on the 
wilds of Kenmore, Burns was wrapt in medi- 
tation. What do you think he was about? 
He was charging the English army, along with 
Bruce, at Bannockburn. He was engaged in 
the same manner on our ride home from St 
Mary's Isle, and I did not disturb him. Next 
day he produced me the following address of 
Bruce to his troops, and gave me a copy for 
Dalzell. 

' Scots, wha ha'e wi' Wallace bled,' &c." 

Burns had entertained hopes of promotion 
'in the Excise ; but circumstances occurred 
which retarded their fulfilment, and which, in 
his own mind, destroyed all expectation of 
their being ever fulfilled. The extraordinary 
events which ushered in the revolution of 
France, interested the feelings, and excited the 
hopes of men in every corner of Europe. Pre- 
judice and tyranny seemed about to disappear 
from among men, and the day-star of reason to 
rise upon a benighted world. In the dawn of 
this beautiful morning, the genius of French 
freedom appeared on our southern horizon with 
the countenance of an angel, but speedily as- 



sumed the features of a demon, and vanished 
in a shower of blood. 

Though previously a Jacobite and a cavalier, 
Burns had shared in the original hopes enter- 
tained of this astonishing revolution, by ardent 
and benevolent minds. The novelty and the 
hazard of the attempt meditated by the First, 
or Constituent Assembly, served rather, it is 
probable, to recommend it to his daring tem- 
per ; and the unfettered scope proposed to be 
given to every kind of talents, was doubtless 
gratifying to the feelings of conscious but in- 
dignant genius. Burns foresaw not the mighty 
ruin that was to be the immediate consequence 
of an enterprise, which, on its commencement, 
promised so much happiness to the human 
race. And even after the career of guilt and 
of blood commenced, he could not immediately, 
it may be presumed, withdraw his partial gaze 
from a people who had so lately breathed the 
sentiments of universal peace and benignity, 
or obliterate in his bosom the pictures of hope 
and of happiness to which those sentiments 
had given birth. Under these impressions, he 
did not always conduct himself with the cir- 
cumspection and prudence which his depend- 
ent situation seemed to demand. He engaged 
indeed in no popular associations, so common 
at the time of which we speak; but in com- 
pany he did not conceal his opinions of public 
measures, or of the reforms required in the 
practice of our government ; and sometimes, in 
his social and unguarded moments, he uttered 
them with a wild and unjustifiable vehemence. 
Information of this was given to the Board of 
Excise, with the exaggerations so general in 
such cases. A superior officer in that de- 
partment was authorized to inquire into his 
conduct. Burns defended himself in a letter 
addressed to one of the board, written with 
great independence of spirit, and with more 
than his accustomed eloquence. The officer 
appointed to inquire into his conduct gave a 
favourable report. His steady friend, Mr 
Graham of Fintra, interposed his good offices 
in his behalf; and the imprudent gauger was 
suffered to retain his situation, but given to 
understand that his promotion was deferred, 
and must depend on his future behaviour. 

This circumstance made a deep impression 
on the mind of Burns. Fame exaggerated his 
misconduct, and represented him as actually 
dismissed from his office : and this report in- 
duced a gentleman of much respectability to 
propose a subscription in his favour. The 
offer was refused by our poet in a letter of 
great elevation of sentiment, in which he gives 
an account of the whole of this transaction, and 
defends himself from imputation of disloyal 
sentiments on the one hand, and on the other, 
from the charge of having made submissions 
for the sake of his office, unworthy of his char- 
acter. 

" The partiality of my countrymen," he ob- 
serves, " has brought me forward as a man of 
genius, and has given me a character to sup- 



Ixviii 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 



port. In the poet I have avowed manly and 
independent sentiments, which I hope have 
been found in the man. Reasons of no less 
weight than the support of a wife and children, 
have pointed out my present occupation as the 
only eligible line of life within my reach. Still 
my honest fame is my dearest concern, and a 
thousand times have I trembled at the idea of 
the degrading epithets that malice or misrepre- 
sentation may affix to my name. Often in 
blasting anticipation have I listened to some 
future hackney scribbler, with the heavy ma- 
lice of savage stupidity, exultingly asserting 
that Burns, notwithstanding the firnfarona.de of 
independence to be found in his works, and 
after having been held up to public view, and 
to public estimation, as a man of some genius, 
yet, quite destitute of resources within himself 
to support his borrowed dignity, dwindled into 
a paltry excisemen, and slunk out the rest 
of his insignificant existence in the meanest of 
pursuits, and among the lowest of mankind. 

" In your illustrious hands, sir, permit me to 
lodge my strong disavowal and defiance of such 
slanderous falsehoods. Burns was a poor man 
from his birth, and an exciseman by necessity ; 
but — 1 will say it! the sterling of his honest 
worth, poverty could not debase, and his inde- 
pendent British spirit, oppression might bend, 
but could not subdue." 

It was one of the last acts of his life to copy 
this letter into his book of manuscripts, ac- 
companied by some additional remarks on the 
same subject. It is not surprising, that at a 
season of universal alarm for the safety of the 
constitution, the indiscreet expressions of a man 
so powerful as Burns, should have attracted 
notice. The times ceitainly required extraor- 
dinary vigilance in those intrusted with the 
administration of the government, and to insure 
the safety of the constitution was doubtless 
their first duty. Yet generous minds will 
lament that their measures of precaution should 
have robbed the imagination of our poet of the 
last prop on which his hopes of independence 
rested, and by embittering his peace, have ag- 
gravated those excesses which were soon to 
conduct him to an untimely grave. 

Though the vehemence of Burns's temper, 
increased as it often was by stimulating liquors, 
might lead him into many improper and un- 
guarded expressions, there seems no leason to 
doubt of his attachment to our mixed form of 
government. In his common-place book, 
where he could have no temptation to disguise, 

are the following sentiments " Whatever 

might be my sentiments of republics, ancient 
or modern, as to Britain, I ever adjured the 
idea. A constitution which, in its original 
principles, experience has proved to be every 
way fitted for our happiness, it would be in- 
sanity to abandon for an untried visionary 
theory." In conformity to these sentiments, 
when the pressing nature of public affairs called 
in 1795 for a general arming of the people, 
Burns appeared in the ranks of the Dumfries 



volunteers, and employed his poetical talents 
in stimulating their patriotism ;* and at thif* 
season of alarm, he brought forward the follow- 
ing hymn, worthy of the Grecian muse, when 
Greece was most conspicuous for genius and 
valour. 

Scene— A Field of Battle— Time of the day, 
Evening — the wounded and dying of the vic- 
torious army are supposed to join in the fol- 
lowing Song. 

Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth, and 
ye skies, 

Now gay with the bright setting sun ; 
Farewell loves and friendships, ye dear tender ties, 

Our race of existence is run ! 

Thou grim king of terrors, thou life's gloomy foe, 
Go, frighten the coward and slave ; 

Go, teach them to tremble, fell tyrant ! but know, 
No terrors hast thou to the brave ! 

Thou strik'st the dull peasant, he sinks in the dark, 
Nor saves e'en the wreck of a name ; 

Thou strik'st the young hero — a glorious mark! 
He falls in tire blaze of his fame ! 

In the field of proud honour— our swords in our 
hands, 

Our king and our country to save — 
While victory shines on life's last ebbing sands, 

O ! who would not rest with the brave !t 

Though by nature of an athletic form, Burns 
had in his constitution the peculiarities and the 
delicacies that belong to the temperament of 
genius. He was liable, from a very early pe- 
riod of life, to that interruption in the process 
of digestion, which arises from deep and anxious 
thought, and which is sometimes the effect, and 
sometimes the cause of depression of spirits. 
Connected with this disorder of the stomach, 
there was a disposition to head-ache, affecting 
more especially the temples and eye-balls, and 
frequently accompanied by violent and irregular 
movements of the heart. Endowed by nature 
with great sensibility of nerves, Burns was, in 
his corporeal, as well as in his mental system, 
liable to inordinate impressions ; to fever of 
body as well as of mind. This predisposition 
to disease, which strict temperance in diet* 
regular exercise, and sound sleep, might have 
subdued, habits of a different nature strength- 
ened and inflamed. Perpetually stimulated by 
alcohol in one or other of its various forms, the 



* See p. 180 
t This poem was written in 1791. See p. 71. It was- 
printed in Johnson's Musical Museum. The poet had 
an intention, in the latter part of his ljfe, of printing it 
separately, set to music, but was advised against it, or 
at least discouraged from it. The martial ardour which 
rose so high afterwards, on the threatened invasion, had 
not then acquired the tone necessary to give popularity 
to this noble poem : which, to the editor, seems more 
calculated to invigorate the spirit of defence, in a season, 
of real and pressing danger, than any production of 
modern times. It is here printed with his last correc- 
tions, varied a little from the copy followed, p. 7L. 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 



ixix 



inordinate artions ■■>( the circulating system be- 
came at length habitual ; the process of nutri- 
tion was unable to supply the waste, and the 
powers of life began to fail. Upwards of a 
year before his death, there was an evident de- 
cline in our poet's personal appearance, and 
though his appetite continued unimpaired, he 
was himself sensible that his constitution was 
sinking. In his moments of thought he reflect- 
ed with the deepest regret on his fatal progress, 
clearly foreseeing the goal towards which he was 
hastening, without the strength of mind neces- 
sary to stop, or even to slacken his course. 
His temper now became more irritable and 
gloomy; he fled from himself into society, 
often of the lowest kind. And in such com- 
pany, that part of the convivial scene, in which 
wine increases sensibility and excites benevo- 
lence, was hurried over, to reach the succeeding 
part, over which uncontrolled passion generally 
presided. He who surfers the pollution of 
inebriation, how shall he escape other pollution? 
But let us retrain from the mention of errors 
over which delicacy and humanity draw the veil. 

In the midst of all his wanderings, Burns 
met nothing in his domestic circle but gentle- 
ness and forgiveness, except in the gnawings of 
his own remorse. He acknowledged his trans- 
gressions to the wife of his bosom, promised 
amendment, and again and again received par- 
don for his offences. But as the strength of 
his body decayed, his resolution became feebler, 
and habit acquired predominating strength. 

From October, 1792, to the January follow- 
ing, an accidental complaint confined him to 
the house. A few days after he began to go 
abroad, he dined at a tavern, and returned home 
about three o'clock in a very cold morning, be- 
numbed and intoxicated. This was followed by 
an attack of rheumatism, which confined him 
about a week. His appetite now began to 
fail ; his hand shook, and his voice faltered on 
any exertion or emotion. His pulse became 
weaker and more rapid, and pain in the larger 
joints, and in the hands and feet, deprived him 
of the enjoyment of refreshing sleep. Too 
much dejected in his spirits, and too well aware 
of his real situation to entertain hopes of re- 
covery, he was ever musing on the approaching 
desolation of his family, and his spirits sunk 
into a uniform gloom. 

It was hoped by some of his friends, that 
if he could live through the months of spring, 
the succeeding season might restore him. But 
they were disappointed. The genial beams of 
the sun infused no vigour into his languid 
frame ; the summer wind blew upon him, but 
produced no refreshment. About the latter 
end of June he was advised to go into the 
country, and impatient of medical advice, as 
well as of every species of control, he determin- 
ed for himself to try the effects of bathing in 
the sea. For this purpose he took up his resi- 
dence at Brow, in Annandale, about ten miles 
•east of Dumfries, on the shore of the Solway- 
•Frith. 



It happened that at that time a lady witn 
whom he had been connected in friendship by 
the sympathies of kindred genius, was residing 
in the immediate neighbourhood.* Being in- 
formed of his arrival, she invited him to din- 
ner, and sent her carriage for him to the cot- 
tage where he lodged, as he was unable to walk. 
— " I was struck," says this lady (in a confi- 
dential letter to a friend written soon after), 
" with his appearance on entering the room. 
The stamp of death was impressed on his 
features. He seemed already touching the 
brink of eternity. His first salutation was 
' Well, madam, have you any commands for 
the other world ?' I replied, that it seemed a 
doubtful case which of us should be there soon- 
est, and that I hoped that he would yet live to 
write my epitaph. (I was then in a poor 
state of health.) He looked in my face with 
an air of great kindness, and expressed his con- 
cern at seeing me look so ill, with his accus- 
tomed sensibility. At table he ate little or 
nothing, and he complained of having entirely 
lost the tone of his stomach. We had a long 
and serious conversation about his present 
situation, and the approaching termination of 
all his earthly prospects. He spoke of his 
death without any of the ostentation of philo- 
sophy, but with firmness as well as feeling — as 
an event likely to happen very soon, and which 
gave him concern chiefly from leaving his four 
children so young and unprotected, and his 
wife in so interesting a situation — in hourly ex- 
pectation of lying in of a fifth. He mentioned, 
with seeming pride and satisfaction, the pro- 
mising genius of his eldest son, and the flatter- 
ing marks of approbation he had received from 
his teachers, and dwelt particularly on his hopes 
of that boy's future conduct and merit. His 
anxiety for his family seemed to hang heavy 
upon him, and the more perhaps from the re- 
flection that he had not done them all the 
justice he was so well qualified to do. Pass- 
ing from this subject, he showed great concern 
about the care of his literary fame, and particu- 
larly the publication of his posthumous works. 
He said he was well aware that his death would 
occasion some noise, and that every scrap of 
his writing would be revived against him to 
the injury of his future reputation: that let- 
ters and verses written with unguarded and 
improper freedom, and which he earnestly 
wished to have buried in oblivion, would be 
handed about by idle vanity or malevolence, 
when no dread of his resentment would re- 
strain them, or prevent the censures of shrill- 
tongued malice, or the insidious sarcasms of 
envy, from pouring forth all their venom to 
blast his fame. 

" He lamented that he had written many 
epigrams on persons against whom he en- 
tertained no enmity, and whose characters he 
should be sorry to wound ; and many indiffer- 
ent poetical pieces, which he feared would 



■ For a character of this lady, see p. 72. 



lxx^ 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 



now, with all their imperfections on their head, 
be thrust upon the world. On this account 
he deeply regretted having deferred to put 
his papers into a state of arrangement, as he 
was now quite incapable of the exertion." — 
The lady goes on to mention many other topics 
of a private nature on which he spoke. — 
" The conversation," she adds, " was kept up 
with great evenness and animation on his side. 
I had seldom seen his mind greater or more col- 
lected. There was frequently a considerable 
degree of vivacrty in his sallies, and they 
would probably have had a greater share, had 
not the concern and dejection I could not dis- 
guise, damped the spirit of pleasantry he 
seemed not unwilling to indulge. 

" We parted about sun-set on the evening 
of that day (the 5th of July, 1796) ; the next 
day I saw him again, and we parted to meet 
no more !'* 

At first, Burns imagined bathing in the sea 
had been of benefit to him : the pains in his 
limbs were relieved ; but this was immediate- 
ly followed by a new attack of fever. When 
brought back to his own house in Dumfries 
on the 18th of July, he was no longer able t< 
stand upright. At this time a tremor per 
vaded his frame ; his tongue was parched, and 
his mind sunk into delirium, when not roused 
by conversation. On the second and third 
day the fever increased, and his strength dim: 
nished. On the fourth, the sufferings of thi 
great, but ill-fated genius were terminated, and 
a life was closed in which virtue and passion 
had been at perpetual variance.* 

The death of Burns made a strong and 
general impression on all who had interested 
themselves in his character, and especially on 
the inhabitants of the town and county in 
which he had spent the latter years of his life. 
Flagrant as his follies and errors had been, 
they had not deprived him of the respect and 
regard entertained for the extraordinary powers 
of his genius, and the generous qualities of his 
heart. The Gentlemen- Volunteers of Dum- 
fries determined to bury their illustrious asso- 
ciate with military honours, and every prepar- 
ation was made to render this last service 
solemn and impressive. The Fencible Infan- 
try of Angus-shire, and the regiment of cavalry 
of the Cinque Ports, at that time quartered in 
Dumfries, offered their assistance on this 
occasion ; the principal inhabitants of the 
town and neighbourhood determined to walk 
in the funeral procession ; and a vast concourse 
of persons assembled, some of them from a 
considerable distance, to witness the obsequies 
of the Scottish Bard. On the evening of the 
2oth of July, the remains of Burns were re- 
moved from his house to the Town- Hall, and 
the funeral took place on the succeeding day. 
A party of the volunteers, selected to perform 



• The particulars resp 
Bums were obligingly furnished by Dr Maxwell the 
physician who attended him. 



the military duty in the church-yard, stationed 
themselves in the front of the procession, with 
their arms reversed ; the main body of the 
corps surrounded and supported the coffin, on 
which were placed the hat and sword of theii 
friend and fellow-soldier ; the numerous body 
of attendants ranged themselves in the rear ; 
while the Fencible regiments of infantry and 
cavalry lined the streets from the Town- Hall 
to the burial-ground in the Southern church- 
yard, a distance of more than half a mile. 
The whole procession moved forward to that 
sublime and affecting strain of music, the 
Dead March in Saul : and three vollies fired 
over his grave marked the return of Burns to 
his parent earth ! The spectacle was in a high 
degree grand and solemn, and accorded with 
the general sentiments of sympathy and sorrow 
which the occasion had called forth. 

It was an affecting circumstance, that, on 
the morning of the day of her husband's fune- 
ral, Airs Burns was undergoing the pains of 
labour, and that during the solemn service we 
have just been describing, the posthumous son 
of our poet was born. This infant boy, who 
! received the name of Maxwell, was not destined 
j to a long life. He has already become an 
inhabitant of the same grave with his celebrated 
father. The four other children of our poet, 
all sons (the eldest at that time about ten 
years of age) yet survive, and give every pro- 
mise of prudence and virtue that can be ex- 
pected from their tender years. They remain 
under the care of their affectionate mother in 
Dumfries, and are enjoying the means of edu- 
cation which the excellent schools of that town 
afford ; the teachers of which, in their conduct 
to the children of Burns, do themselves great 
honour. On this occasion, the name of Mr 
Whyte deserves to be particularly mentioned, 
himself a poet as well as a man of science.* 

Bums died in great poverty ; but the inde- 
pendence of his spirit, and the exemplary pru- 
dence of his wife, had preserved him from 
debt. He had received from his poems a clear 
profit of about nine hundred pounds. Of this 
sum, the part expended on his library (which 
was far from extensive) and in the humble 
furniture of his house, remained ; and obliga- 
tions were found for two hundred pounds 
advanced by him to the assistance of those to 
whom he was united by the ties of blood, and still 
more by those of esteem and affection. When 
it is considered, that his expenses in Edin- 
burgh, and on his various journeys, could not 
be inconsiderable ; that his agricultural under- 
taking was unsuccessful; that his income from 
the Excise was for some time as low as fifty,, 
and never rose to above seventy pounds a-year ;. 
that his family was large, and his spirit liberal 
— no one will be surprised that his circum- 
stances were so poor, or that, as his health.- 
decayed, his proud and feeling heart sunk under 

a poem ; and cu 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 



.xxi 



the secret consciousness of indigence, and the 
apprehensions of absolute want. Yet poverty 
never bent tbe spirit of Burns to any pecuniary 
meanness. Neither chicanery nor sordidness 
ever appeared in his conduct. He carried his 
disregard of money to a blameable excess. 
Even in the midst of distress he bore himself 
loftily to the world, and received with a jealous 
reluctance every offer of friendly assistance. 
His printed poems had procured him great 
celebrity, and a just and fair recompense for 
the latter offsprings of his pen might have 
produced him considerable emolument. In 
the year 1765, the Editor of a Loudon news- 
paper, high in its character for literature, and 
independence of sentiment, made a proposal 
to him that he should furnish them, once a- 
week, with an article for their poetical depart- 
ment, and receive from them a recompense of 
fifty- two guineas per annum; an offer which 
the pride of genius disdained to accept. Yet 
he had fur several years furnished, and was at 
that time furnishing, the Museum of Johnson 
with his beautiful lyrics, without fee or reward, 
and was obstinately refusing all recompense 
for his assistance to the greater work of Mr 
Thomson, which the justice and generosity of 
that gentleman was pressing upon him. 

The sense of his poverty, and of the ap- 
proaching distress of his infant family, pressed 
heavily on Burns as he lay on the bed of death. 
Yet he aUuded to his indigence, at times, with 
something approaching to his wonted gaiety. 
— " What business," said he to Dr Maxwell, 
who attended him with the utmost zeal, " has 
a physician to waste his time on me ? I am a 
poor pigeon, not worth plucking. Alas ! I 
have not feathers enough upon me to carry me 
to my grave." And when his reason was lost 
in delirium, his ideas ran in the same melan- 
choly train ; the horrors of a jail were continu- 
ally present to his troubled imagination, and 
produced the most affecting exclamations. 

As for some months previous to his death 
he had been incapable of the duties of his office, 
Burns had imagined that his salary was reduced 
one half, as is usual in such cases. The 
Board, however, to their honour, continued 
his full emoluments ; and Mr Graham of 
Fintra, hearing of his illness, though unac- 
quainted with its dangerous nature, made an 
offer of his assistance towards procuring him 
the means of preserving his health. — Whatever 
might be the faults of Burns, ingratitude was 
Rot of the number — Amongst his manuscripts, 
various proofs are found of the sense he enter- 
tained of Mr Graham's friendship, which 
delicacy towards that gentleman has induced 
us to suppress ; and on the last occasion there 
4S no doubt that his heart overflowed towards 
him, though he had no longer the power of 
erpressing his feelings.* 



* The letter of Mr Graham alluded to above, is dated 
Jli the 13tli ot July, and probably arrived on the 15tli. 
Burns became delirious on the 17th or 18th, and died on 



On the death of Burns, the inhabitants of 
Dumfries and its neighbourhood opened a 
subscription for the support of his wife and 
family; and Mr Miller, Mr M'Murdo, JJi 
Maxwell, and Mr Syme, gentlemen of the 
first respectability, became trustees for the 
application of the money to its proper objects. 
The subscription was extended to other parts 
of Scotland, and of England also, particularly 
London and Liverpool. By this means a 
sum was raised amounting to seven hundred 
pounds ; and thus the widow and children 
were rescued from immediate distress, and the 
most melancholy of the forebodings of Burns 
happily disappointed. It is true, this sum, 
though equal to their present support, is in- 
sufficient to secure them from future penury. 
Their hope in regard to futurity depends on 
the favourable reception of those volumes from 
the public at large, in the promoting of which 
the candour and humanity of the reader may 
induce him to lend his assistance. 

Burns, as has already been mentioned, was 
nearly five feet ten inches in height, and of a 
form that indicate./, agility as well as strength. 
His well-raised forehead, shaded with black 
curling hair, indicated extensive capacity. 
His eyes were large, dark, full of ardour and 
intelligence. His face was well formed ; and 
his countenance uncommonly interesting and 
expressive. His mode of dressing, which was 
often slovenly, and a certain fulness and bend 
in his shoulders, characteristic of his original 
profession, disguised in some degree the natu- 
ral symmetry and elegance of his form. The 
external appearance of Burns was most strik- 
ingly indicative of the character of his mind. 
On a first view, his physiognomy had a certain 
air of coarseness, mingled, however, with an 
expression of deep penetration, and of calm 
thoughtfulness approaching to melancholy. 
There appeared in his first manner and address, 
perfect ease and self-possession, but a stern 
and almost supercilious elevation, not, indeed, 
incompatible with openness and affability, 
which, however, bespoke a mind conscious of 
superior talents. — Strangers that supposed 
themselves approaching an Ayrshire peasant, 
who could make rhymes, and to whom their 
notice was an honour, found themselves 
speedily overawed by the presence of a man 
who bore himself with dignity, and who pos- 
sessed a singular power of correcting forward- 
ness and of repelling intrusion. But though 
jealous of the respect due to himself, Burns 
never enforced it where he saw it was willingly 
paid ; and, though inaccessible to the ap- 
proaches of pride, he was open to every advance 
of kindness arid of benevolence. His dark 
and haughty countenance easily relaxed into a 
look of good-will, of pity, or of tenderness; 
and, as the various emotions succeeded each 
other in his mind, assumed with equal ease the 
expression of the broadest humour, of the 
most extravagant mirth, of the deepest melan- 
i choly, or of the most sublime emotion. The 



fx 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 



tones of his voice happily corresponded with 
.he expression of his features, and with the 
feelings of his mind. When to these endow- 
ments are added a rapid and distinct apprehen- 
sion, a most power'nl understanding, and a 
happy command of language — of strength as 
well as hrilliancy of expression — we shall he 
able to account for the extraordinary attractions 
of his conversation — for the sorcery which in 
his social parties he seemed to exert on all 
Bround him. In the company of women this 
sorcery was more especially apparent. Their 
presence charmed r lie fiend of melancholy in 
bis bosom, and awoke his happiest feelings; 
it excited the powers of his fancy, as well as 
the tenderness of his heart ; and, by restraining 
the vehemence and the exuberance of his lan- 
guage, at times gave to his manners the im- 
pression of taste, and even of elegance, which 
in the company of men they seldom possessed. 
This influence was doubtless reciprocal. A 
Scottish Lady, accustomed to the best society, 
declared with characteristic naivete that no 
man's conversation ever carried her so com- 
pletely off her feet as that of Bums; and an 
English Lady, familiarly acquainted with 
several of the most distinguished characters of 
the present times, assured the editor, that in 
the happiest of his social hours, there was a 
charm about Burns which >he had never seen 
equalled. The charm arose not more from 
the power than the versatility of his geniiu. 
No languor could be felt in the society of a 
man who passed at pleasure from grave to gay, 
from the ludicrous to the pathetic, from the 
simple to the sublime; who wielded all his 
faculties with equal strength and ease, and 
never failed to impress the offspring of his 
fancy with the stamp of his understanding. 

This, indeed, is to represent Burns in his 
happiest pbasis. In laige and mixed parties, 
he was often silent and dark, sometimes fierce 
and overbearing; he was jealous of the proud 
man's scorn, jealous to an extreme of the in- 
solence of wealth, and prone to avenge, even 
on its innocent possessor, the partiality of for- 
tune. By nature kind, brave, sincere, and in a 
singular degree compassionate, he was on the 
other hand proud, irascible, and vindictive. 
His virtues and his failings had their origin in 
the extraordinary sensibility of his mind, and 
equally partook of the chills arid glows of sen- 
timent. His friendships were liable to inter- 
ruption from jealousy or disgust, and his 
enmities died away under the influence of pity 
or self-accusation. His understanding was 
equal to the other powers of his mind, and his 
deliberate opinions were singularly candid and 
just ; but, like other men of great and irregular 
genius, the opinions which he delivered in con- 
versation were often the offspring of temporary 
feelings, and widely different from the calm 
decisions of his judgment. This was not 
merely true respecting the characters of others, 
but in regard to some of the most important 
points of hu.rian speculation. 



On no subject did he give a more striking 
proof of the strength of his nnderstanding, than 
in the correct estimate he formed of himself. 
He knew his own failings ; he predicted their 
consequence ; the melancholy foreboding was 
never long absent from his mind ; yet his pas- 
sions carried him down the stream of error, 
and swept him over the precipice he saw di- 
rectly in his course. The fatal defect in his 
character lay in the comparative weakness of 
his volition, that superior faculty of the mind, 
which governing the conduct according to the 
dictates of the understanding, alone entitles it 
to be denominated rational; which is the 
parent of fortitude, patience, and self-denial • 
which, by regulating and combining human 
exertions, may be said to have effected all that 
is great in the works of man, in literature, in 
science, or on the face of nature. The occu- 
pations of a poet are not calculated to strength- 
en the governing powers of the mind, or to 
weaken that sensibility which requires perpe- 
tual control, since it gives birth to the vehe- 
mence of passion as well as to the higher 
powers of imagination. Unfortunately the 
favourite occupations of genius are calculated 
to increase all its peculiarities ; to nourish that 
lofty pride, which disdains the littleness of 
prudence, and the restrictions of order ; and, 
by indulgence, to increase that sensibility, 
which, in the present form of our existence, is 
scarcely compatible with peace or happiness, 
even when accompanied with the choicest gifts 
of fortune. 

It is observed by one who was a friend and 
associate of Burns,* and who has contemplated 
and explained the system of animated nature, 
that no sentient being, with mental powers 
greatly superior to those of men, could possibly 
live and he happy in th;s world — " If such a 
being really existed," continues he, " his misery 
would be extreme. With senses more delicate 
and refined ; with perceptions more acute and 
penetrating; with a taste so exquisite that the 
objects around him would by no means gratify 
it ; obliged to feed on nourishment too gross 
for his frame; he must be born only to be 
miserable, and the continuation of his existence 
would be utterly impossible. Even in our 
present condition, the sameness and the insipi- 
dity of objects and pursuits, the futility of 
pleasure, and the infinite sources of excruciat- 
ing pain, are supported with great difficulty by 
cultivated and refined minds. Increase our 
sensibilities, continue the same objects and 
situation, and no man could bear to live." 

Thus it appears, that our powers of sensa- 
tion, as well as all our other powers, are adapt- 
ed to the scene of our existence ; that they are 
limited in mercy, as well as in wisdom. 

The speculations of Mr Smellie are not to 
be considered as the dreams of a theorist ; they 
were probably founded on sad experience. 

* Smellie — See his Philosophj, of' Natural Hittory, 



LTFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 



Ixxiii 



The being he supposes, " with senses more de- 
licate and refined, with perceptions more acute 
and penetrating," is to be found in real life. 
He is of the temperament of genius, and per- 
haps a poet. Is there, then, no remedy for 
this inordinate sensibility ? Are there no means 
by which the happiness of otie so constituted 
by nature may be consulted ? Perhaps it will 
be found, that regular and constant occupation, 
irksome though it may at first be, is the true 
remedy. Occupation in which the powers of 
the understanding are exercised, will diminish 
the force of external impressions, and keep the 
imagination under restraint. 

That the bent of every man's mind should 
be followed in his education and in his destina- 
tion in life, is a maxim which has been often 
repeated, but which cannot be admitted with- 
out many restrictions. It may be generally 
true when applied to weak minds, which, being 
capable of little, must be encouraged and 
strengthened in the feeble impulses by which 
that little is produced. But where indulgent 
nature has bestowed her gifts with a liberal 
hand, the very reverse of this maxim ought fre- 
quently to be the rule of conduct. In minds of 
a higher order, the object of instruction and of 
discipline is very often to restrain rather than to 
impel ; to curb the impulses of imagination so 
that the passions also may be kept under control.* 
Hence the advantages, even in a moral point 
of view, of studies of a severe nature, which, 
while they inform the understanding, employ 
the volition, that regulating power of the mind, 
which like all our other faculties, is strength- 
ened by exercise, and on the superiority of 
which, virtue, happiness, and honourable fame, 
are wholly dependent. Hence also the ad- 
vantage of regular and constant application, 
which aids the voluntary power by the produc- 
tion of habits so necessary to the support of 
order and virtue, and so difficult to be formed 
in the temperament of genius. 

The man who is so endowed and so regu- 
lated, may pursue his course with confidence 
in almost any of the various walks of life which 
choice or accident shall open to him ; and pro- 
vided he employs the talents he has cultivated, 
may hope for such imperfect happiness, and 
such limited success, as are reasonably expect- 
ed from human exertions. 

The pre-eminence among men, which pro- 
cures personal respect, and which terminates 
in lasting reputation, is seldom or never ob- 



i'ollowed in lis education [an secundum sui quistjue in 
genii doceiitlits nil. natnram,) cliiclly, indeed, with a re- 
ference to til" orator, but in a way that admits of very 
funeral application. His conclusions coincide very 
much with thine of the text. An vero Jsocrates cum de 
Ephoro atone Theopompo sic Judicaret, ut alteri 

ill,, levtinre Inrditiiti in, tint in Hit, pmie priecipiti conci- 
t'itionem adjurandum dorendo existunavit ? cum alte- 
ram alterius nutura miscendum arbitraretur. Imbe- 
eilis tamen inifPinis sum' sic nhspquendum sit, nt tnntum 
-in id quo vocal natiira, ihicanlni: Ita enim, quod solum 
4*issunt, melius efficient.— Iustit. Orator. lib. ii. » 



tained by the excellence of a single faculty of 
mind. Experience teaches us, that it has been 
acquired by those only who have possessed 
the comprehension and the energy of general 
talents, and who have regulated their applica- 
tion, in the line which choice, or perhaps acci- 
dent may have determined, by the dictates of 
their judgment. Imagination is supposed, and 
with justice, to be the leading faculty of the 
poet. But what poet has stood the test of 
time by the force of this single faculty? Who 
does not see that Homer and Shakspeare ex- 
celled the rest of their species in understand- 
ing as well as in imagination •, that they were 
pre-eminent in the highest species of know- 
ledge — the knowledge of the nature and char- 
acter of man ? On the other hand, the talent 
of ratiocination is more especially requisite to 
the fjrator ; but no man ever obtained the 
palm of oratory, even by the highest excellence 
in this single talent, who does not perceive that 
Demosthenes and Cicero were not more happy 
in their addresses to the reason, than in their 
appeals to the passions ? They knew, that to 
excite, to agitate, and to delight, are among 
the most potent arts of persuasion ; and they 
enforced their impression on the understanding, 
by their command of all the sympathies of the 
heart. These observations might be extended 
to other walks of life. He who has the facul- 
ties fitted to excel in poetry, has the faculties 
which, duly governed and differently directed, 
might lead to pre-eminence in other, and as far as 
respects himself, perhaps in happier destinations. 
The talents necessary to the construction of 
an Iliad, under different discipline and applica- 
tion, might have led armies to victory, or 
kingdoms to prosperity; might have wielded 
the thunder of eloquence, or discovered and 
enlarged the sciences that constitute the power^ 
and improve the condition of our species.* 



* The reader must not suppose it is contended that 
the same individual could have excelled in all these di- 
rections. A certain degree of instruction and practice 
is necessary to excellence in every one, and life is too 
short to admit of one man, however great his talents, 
acquiring this in all of them. It is only asserted, that 
the same talents differently applied, might have suc- 
ceeded in any one, though perhaps, not equally well in 
each. And, after all, this position requires certain limi- 
tations, which the reader's candour and judgment will 
supply. In supposing that a great poet might have 
made a great orator, the physical qualities necessary 
to oratory are presupposed. In supposing that a great 
orator might have made a great poet, it is a necessary 
condition, that he should have devoted himself to 
poetry, and that he should have acquired a profi- 
ciency in metrical numbers which by patience and 
attention may be acquired, though the want of it 
has embarrassed and chilled many of the first ef- 
forts of true poetical genius. In supposing that 
Homer might have led armies to victory, more indeed 
is assumed than the physical qualities of a general. To 
these must be added that hardihood of mind, that cool- 
ness in the midst of difficulty and danger, which great 
poets and orators are found sometimes, hut not always, 
to possess. The nature of the institutions of Greece 
and Rome produced more instances of sin-le individual 
who excelled in various departments of active and spe- 
culative life, than occur in modern Europe, where the 
employments of men are subdivided. Many of the 
greatest warriors of antiquity excolh d in literature and 
in oratory. That they had the minds of great poets. 



Ixxiv 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS 



Such talents are, indeed, rare among the pro- l 
ductions of nature, and occasions of bringing 
them into full exertion are rarer still. But 
safe and salutary occupations may be found for 
men of genius in every direction, while the 
useful and ornamental arts remain to be culti- 
vated, while the sciences remain to be studied 
and to be extended, ana the principles of 
science to be applied to me correction and im- 
provement of art. In the temperament of sen- 
sibility, which is in truth the temperament of 
general talents, the principal object of discip- 
line and instruction is, as has already been men- 
tioned, to strengthen the self-command ; and 
this may be promoted by the direction of the 
studies, more effectually perhaps than has been 
generally understood. 

If these observations be founded in truth, 
they may lead to practical consequences of some 
importance. It has been too much the custom 
to consider the possession of poetical talents as 
excluding the possibility of application to the 
severer branches of study, and as in some de- 
gree incapacitating the possessor from attaining 



also will be 


admitted, 


when the q 


lalities are justly ap- 

;ivat body of men to 
lins fatigue, hunger, 

ost powerful instinct 


predated wl 
command th 
rouse that ei 
and the incle 


thnV-r..:; 


death, the n 


The autho 
of the close ( 
Est enim fit 

xoiuiib^i. c 


ity of Ci 


•ero may be appealed to in favour 

between the poet and the orator. 

,1,,,-i I !„, mnncris ad.strictior 

',,■„„;$•: DliORA- 
■ iilwi, lib. in. e. 7.— It is true the 


nioT 11 Vis 
by Plutarch, 


HEH 


art of the | 


Iv did not tax;- sulli- 
o"et : but that he had 


the affiatut necessarj 

[he other hand, 11., tin. 


^smore'cl 


excellence, may be 
jsitiohs in prose. On 
Mr, than that, in the 

)oiio-t.l, l aMot''ll.'T:.el'! 



i-ely i. 



to Hoi 



lay b 



,ak-pea 



1 the 



How 



1 Mi.ton, 



acquaintance with 

need not be mentioned, nor need we point out by name 
a character which may be appealed to with confidence 
When we are contending lor' the universality of genius, 
The identity, or at least the great similarity of the 
talents necessary to excellence in poetry, oratoiy, 
painting, and war, will be admitted by some, who will 
be inclined to dispute the extension of the position to 
science or natural knowledge. On this occasion 1 may 
quote the follou ing obsen ations of Sir William Jones, 
Whose own example will, however, far exceed in 
weight the authority of his precepts. " Abul Olo had 
60 flourishing a reputation, that several persons of un- 
common genius were ambitious of learning the art of 
poetry from so able an instructor. His most illustrious 
scholars were Feleki and Khakani, who were no less 
eminent for their Persian compositions, than for their 
skill iu every branch of pure and mixed mathematics, 
and particularly in astronomy ; a striking proof that a 
sublime poet may become master of any kind of learn- 
ing which he chooses to profess ; since a fine imagina- 
tion, a lively wit, an easy and copious style, cannot 
possibly obstruct the acquisition of any science what- 
ever; but must necessarily assist him in his studies, 
and shorten ins •»bour." — Sir William Jones's Works, 
V«/t 11. p. 317 



those habits, and from bestowing that attention, 
which are necessary to success in the details of 
business, and in the engagements of active life. 
It has been common for persons conscious of 
such talents, to look with a sort of disdain on 
other kinds of intellectual excellence, and to 
consider themselves as in some degree absolved 
from these rules of prudence by which hum- 
bler minds are restricted. They are too much 
disposed to abandon themselves to their own 
sensations, and to suffer life to pass away with- 
out regular exertion, or settled purpose. 

But though men of genius are generally 
prone to indolence, with them indolence and 
unhappiness are in a more especial manner al- 
lied. The unbidden splendours of imagination 
may indeed at times irradiate the gloom which 
inactivity produces ; but such visions, though 
bright, are transient, and serve to cast the re- 
alities of life into deeper shade. In bestowing 
great talents, Nature seems very generally to 
have imposed on the possessor the necessity of 
exertion, if he would escape wretchedness. 
Better for him than sloth, toils the most pain- 
ful, or adventures the most hazardous. Hap- 
pier to him than idleness, were the condition 
of the peasant, earning with incessant labour 
his scanty food ; or that of the sailor, though 
hanging on the yard arm, and wrestling with 
the hurricane. 

These observations might be amply illustrat- 
ed by the biography of men of genius of every 
denomination, and more especially by the bio- 
graphy of the poets. Of this last description 
of men, few seem to have enjoyed the usual 
portion of happiness that falls to the lot of hu- 
manity, those excepted who have cultivated 
poetry as an elegant amusement in the hours 
of relaxation from other occupations, or the 
small number who have engaged with success 
in the greater or more arduous attempts of the 
muse, in which all the faculties of the mii.d 
have been fully and permanently employed. 
Even taste, virtue, and comparative independ- 
ence, do not seem capable of bestowing, on 
men of genius, peace and tranquillity, without 
such occupation as may give regular and health- 
ful exercise to the faculties of body and mind. 
The amiable Shenstone has left us the records 
of his imprudence, of his indolence, and of his 
unhappiness, amidst the shades of the Leas- 
owes;* and the virtues, the learning, and the 
genius of Gray, equal to the loftiest attempt 
of the epic muse, failed to procure him in the 
academic bowers of Cambridge, that tranquil- 
lity and that respect which less fastidiousness 
of taste, and greater constancy and vigour of 
exertion, would have doubtless obtained. 

It is more necessary that men of genius 
should be aware of the importance of self-com- 
mand, and of exertion, because their indolence 
is peculiarly exposed, not merely to unhappi- 
ness, but to diseases of mind, and to errors of 

* See his letters, which, as a display of the effect* oi 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 



I XX 



eonduct, which are generally fatal. This inter- 
esting suhject deserves a particular investiga- 
tion : but we must content ourselves with one 
or two cursory remarks. Relief is sometimes 
sought from the melancholy of indolence in 
practices, which for a time soothe and gratify 
the sensations, but which in the end involve 
the sufferer in darker gloom. To command 
the external circumstances by which happiness 
is affected, is not in human power : but there 
are various substances in nature which operate 
on the system of the nerves, so as to give a 
fictitious gaiety to the ideas of imagination, and 
to alter the effect of the external impressions 
which we receive. Opium is chiefly employed 
for this purpose by the disciples of Mahomet, 
and the inhabitants of Asia ; but alcohol, the 
principle of intoxication in vinous and spiritu- 
ous liquors, is preferred in Europe, and is uni- 
versally used in the Christian world.* Under 
the various wounds to which indolent sensibil- 
ity is exposed, and under the gloomy appre- 
hensions respecting futurity to which it is so 
often a prey, how strong is the temptation to 
have recourse to an antidote by which the pain 
of these wounds is suspended, by which the 
heart is exhilarated, ideas of hope and of hap- 
piness are excited in the mind, and the forms 
of external nature clothed with new beauty! — 



hlvsium opens round, 
A pleasing frenzy buoys the lighten'd soul, 
And sanguine hopes dispel your fleeting care ; 
And what was difficult, and what was dire, 
Yields to your prowess, and superior stars : 
The happiest of you all that e'er were mad, 
Or are, or shall be, could this folly last. 
But soon your heaven is gone ; a heavier gloom 
Shuts o'er your head 



an inquiry into the particular effects of each on the 
health, morals, and happiness, of those who use them, 
would be curious and useful. The effects of wine and 
of opium on the temperament nf sensibility, the Editor 
inteuded to have discu-sed in this place at some length ; 
but he found the suhject too professional to be intro- 
duced with propriety. The difficulty of abandoning 
any of these narcotics (if we may so term them,) when 
Inclination 13 strengthened by habit, is well known, 
'ohnson, in his distresses, had experienced the cheering 
but treacherous influence of wine, and by a powerful 
effort, abandoned it. He was obliged, however, to use 
tea as a substitute, and this was the solace to which he 
constantly had recourse under his habitual melancholy. 
The praises of wine form many of the most beautiful 
lyrics of the poets of Greece and Rome, and modern 
Europe. Whether opium, which produces visions still 
more ecstatic, has been the theme of the eastern poets, I 
do not know. Wine is taken in small doses at a time, in 
company, where, fur a time, it promotes harmony and 
BOcial affection. Opium is swallowed by the Asiatics in 
full doses at once, i the inebriate retires to the soli- 
tary indulgence of his delirious imaginations. Hence 
the wine-drinker appears in a superior light to the im- 
biber of opium, a distini lion which he owes more to 
the form, than to the quality of his liquor. 



Morning comes ; your cares return 

With tenfold rage. An anxious stomach well 
May be endured : so may the throbbing head : 
But such a dim delirium, such a drearil 
Involves vou ; such a dastardly despair 
Unmans your soul, as madd'ning Pentheus felt, 
When baited round Cithseron's cruel sides, 
He saw two suns and double Thebes ascend. 
Armstrong's Art of Preserving Heultli, b. iv. 1. 1C3. 

Such are the pleasures and the pains of in- 
toxication, as they occur in the temperament of 
sensibility, described by a genuine poet, with a 
degree of truth and energy which nothing but 
experience could have dictated. There are, 
indeed, some individuals of this temperament 
on whom wine produces no cheering influence. 
On some, even in very moderate quantities, 
its effects are painfully irritating ; in large 
doses it excites dark and melancholy ideas ; 
and in doses still larger, the fierceness of in- 
sanity itself. Such men are happily exempted 
from a temptation, to which experience teaches 
us the finest dispositions often yield, and the 
influence of which, when strengthened by habit, 
it is a humiliating truth, that the most powerful 
minds have not been able to resist. 

It is the more necessary for men of genius 
to be on their guard against the habitual use of 
wine, because it is apt to steal on them insen- 
sibly; and because the temptation to excess 
usually presents itself to them in their social 
hours, when they are alive only to warm and 
generous emotions, and when prudence and 
moderation are often contemned as selfishness 
and timidity. 

It is the more necessary for them to guard 
against excess in the use of wine, because on 
them its effects are physically and morally, in 
an especial manner, injurious. In proportion 
to its stimulating influence on the system (on 
which the pleasurable sensations depend), is 
the debility that ensues ; a debility that destroys 
digestion, and terminates in habitual fever, 
dropsy,jaundice, paralysis, or insanity. As the 
strength of the body decays, the volition fails ; 
in proportion as the sensations are soothed and 
gratified, the sensibility increases ; and morbid 
sensibility is the parent of indolence, because, 
while it impairs the regulating power of the 
mind, it exaggerates all the obstacles to exertion. 
Activity, perseverance, and self-command, be- 
come more and more difficult, and the great 
purposes of utility, patriotism, or of honourable 
ambition, which had occupied the imagination, 
die away in fruitless resolutions, or in feeble 
efforts. 

To apply these observations to the subject 
of our memoirs, would be a useless as well as a 
painful task. It is, indeed, a duty we owe to 
the living, not to allow our admiration of great 
genius, or even our pity for its unhappy des- 
tiny, to conceal or disguise its errors. But 
there are sentiments of respect, and even of 
tenderness, with which this duty should be 
performed; there is an awful sanctity which 
invests the mansions of the dead ; and let 



Ixxvi 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 



those who moralize over the graves of their 
contemporaries, reflect with humility on their 
own errors, nor forget how soon they may 
themselves require the candour and the sym- 
pathy they are called upon to bestow. 



Soon after the death of Burns, the following 
article appeared in the Dumfries Journal, from 
which it is copied into the Edinburgh news- 
papers, and into various other periodical pub- 
lications. It is from the elegant pen of a lady 
already alluded to in the course of these me- 
moirs,* whose exertions for the family of 
our bard, in the circles of literature and fashion 
in which she moves, have done her so much 
honour. 

" It is not probable that the late mournful 
event, « hich is likely to be felt severely in the 
literary world, as well as in the circle of pri- 
vate friendship which surrounded our admired 
poet, should be unattended with the usual pro- 
fusion of posthumous anecdotes, memoirs, ike. 
that commonly spring up at the death of every 
rare and celebrated personage. I shall tiot at- 
tempt to enlist with the numerous corps of bio- 
graphers, who, it is prob.ble, may without 
possessing his genius, arrogate to them>elves 
the privilege of criticising the character or 
writings of Mr Burns. ' The inspiring man- 
tie ' thrown over him by that tutelarly muse 
who first found him, like the prophet Elisha, 
' at Ins plough 'f has been the portion of few, 
may be the portion of fewer still ; and if it is 
true that men of genius have a claim in their 
literary capacities to the leg;il right of the Bri- 
tish citizen in a court of justice, that of being 
tried only by Ids peers, (I borrow here an ex- 
pression I have frequently heard Burns himself 
make use of,) God forbid I should, any more 
thai- the generality of other people, assume the 
flattering and peculiar privilege of sitting upon 
bis jury. But the intimacy of our acquaintance 
for several years past, may perhaps justify my 
presenting to the public a few of those ideas 
and observations I have had the opportunity 
of forming, and which, to the day that closed 
for ever the scene of his happy qualities and of 
bis errors, I have never had the smallest cause 
to deviate in, or to recall. 

" It will be the misfortune of Burns' reputa- 
tion, in the records of literature, not only to 
future generations and to foreign countries, but 
even with his native Scotland and a number of 
Lis contemporaries, that he has been regarded 
as a poet, and nothing but a poet. It must 
not be supposed that I consider this title as a 



* Sep p. lx . 

t " The Poetic genius 
.ne prophetic bard Elijah did Elisha — at the Plough ; 
and threw her inspiring mantle over me. She bade me 
sing the loves, the joys, the rural scenes and rural plea- 
sure of my native soil, in my native tongue,'' &c 

Burns' Prefatory Address to the Noblemen and Gentle- 
men of the Caledonian Hunt 



trivial one : no person can be more penetrated 
with the respect due to the wreath bestowed 
by the muses than myself; and much certainly 
is due to the merit of a self taught bard, de- 
prived of the advantages of a classical educa- 
tion, and the intercourse of minds congenial 
to his own, till that period of life, when 
his native fire had already blazed forth in all 
its wild graces of genuine simplicity and en- 
ergetic eloquence of sentiment. But the fact 
is, that even when all his honours are yielded 
to him, Burns will perhaps be found to move 
in a sphere less splendid, less dignified, 
and, even in his own pastoral style, less attrac- 
tive, than several other writers have done ; and 
that poetry was (I appeal to all who had the 
advantage of being personally acquainted with 
him) actually not his forte. If others have 
climbed more successfully to theheights of Par- 
nassus, none certainly ever out-shone Burns in 
the charms — the sorcery I would almost call 
it, of fascinating conversation ; the spontaneous 
eloquence of social argument, or the unstudied 
poignancy of brilliant repartee. His personal 
endowments were perfectly correspondent with 
the qualifications of his mind. His form was 
manly; his action energy itself; devoid, in a 
great measure, however, of those graces, of that 
polish, acquired only in the refinement of so- 
cieties, where in early life he had not the op- 
portunity to mix; but where, such was the 
irresistible power of attraction that encircled 
him, though his appearance and manners were 
always peculiar, he never failed to delight and 
to excel. His figure certainly bore the authen- 
tic impress of his birth and original station in 
life ; it seemed rather moulded by nature for 
the rough exercise of agriculture, than the 
gentler cultivation of the belles lettres. His 
features were stamped with the hardy charac- 
ter of independence, and the firmness of con- 
scious, though not arrogant pre-eminence. I 
believe no man was ever gifted with a larger 
portion of the vivida vis animi : the animated 
expressions of his countenance were almost pe- 
culiar to himself. The rapid lightnings of his 
eye were always the harbingers of some flash 
of genius, whether they darted the fiery glances 
of insulted and indignant superiority, or beamed 
with the impassioned sentiment of fervent and 
impetuous affections. His voice alone could 
improve upon the magic of his eye ; sonorous, 
replete with the finest modulations, it alter- 
nately captivated the ear with the melody of 
poetic numbers, the perspicuity of nervous 
reasoning, or the ardent sallies of enthusiastic 
patriotism. The keenness of satire was, (I 
am almost at a loss whether to say his forte or 
his foible;) for though nature had endowed 
him with a portion of the most pointed excel- 
lence in that ' perilous gift,' he suffered it too 
often to be the vehicle of personal, and some- 
times unfounded animosities. It was not only 
that sportiveness of humour, that ' unwary 
pleasantry,' which Sterne has described to us 
with touches so conciliatory; but the darts of 



lIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 



lxxvii 



ridicule were frequently directed as the caprice 
of the instant suggested, or the altercations of 
parties or of persons happened to kindle the 
restlessness of his spirit into interest or aver- 
sion. This was not however, unexceptionably 
the case, his wit (which is no unusual matter 
indeed) had always the start of his judgment, 
and would lead him to the indulgence of raillery 
uniformly acute, but often unaccompanied by 
the least desire to wound. The suppression 
of an arch and full pointed bon mot, from the 
dread of injuring its object, the sage of Zurich 
very properly classes as a virtue ' only to be 
sought for in the calendar of saints j' if so, 
Burns must not be dealt with unconscientiously 
for being rather deficient in it. He paid the 
forfeit of his talents as dearly as any one could 
do. ' 'Twas no extravagant arithmetic to say 
of him, as of Yorick, that for every ten jokes 
he got a hundred enemies ;' and much allow- 
ance should be made by a candid mind for the 
splenetic warmth of a spirit ' which distress 
had often spited with the world,' and which, 
unbounded in its intellectual sallies and pur- 
suits, continually experienced the curbs imposed 
by the waywardness of his fortune. The viva- 
city of his wishes and temper was indeed 
checked by constant disappointments, which 
sat heavy on a heart that acknowledged the 
ruling passion of independence, without having 
ever been placed beyond the grasp of penury. 
His soul was never languid or inactive, and his 
genius was extinguished only with the last 
sparks of retreating life. His passions render- 
ed him, according as they disclosed themselves 
in affection or antipathy, the object of enthusi- 
astic attachment, or of decided enmity ; for he 
possessed none of that negative insipidity of 
character, whose love might be regarded with 
indifference, or whose resentment could be 
considered with contempt. In this it should 
seem the temper of his companions took the 
tincture from his own ; for he acknowledged 
in the universe but two classes of objects, those 
of adoration the most fervent, or of aversion 
the most uncontrollable ; and it has been fre- 
quently asserted of him, that unsusceptible of 
indifference, often hating where he ought to 
have despised, he alternately opened his heart, 
and poured forth all the treasures of his un- 
derstanding to such as were incapable of appre- 
ciating the homage, and elevated to the privile- 
ges of an adversary, some who were unqualified 
in talents, or by nature, for the honour of a 
contest so distinguished. 

" It is said that the celebrated Dr Johnson 
professed to ' love a good hater,' — a tempera- 
ment that had singularly adapted him to cher- 
ish a prepossession in favour of our bard, who 
perhaps fell little short even of the surly Doc- 
tor in this qualification, as long as the disposi- 
tion to ill-will continued ; but the fervour of 
his passions was fortunately tempered by their 
versatility. He was seldom, never indeed im- 
placable in his resentments, and sometimes, it 
has been alleged, not inviolably steady in his 



engagements of friendship. Much indeed has 
been said of his inconstancy and caprices ; but 
I am inclined to believe, they originated less 
from a levity of sentiment, than from an im- 
petuosity of feeling, that rendered him prompt 
to take umbrage ; and his sensations of pique, 
where he fancied he had discovered the traces- 
of unkindness, scorn, or neglect, took their 
measure of asperity from the overflowings of 
the opposite sentiment which preceded them, 
and which seldom failed to regain its ascenden- 
cy in his bosom on the return of calmer reflec- 
tion. He was candid and manly in the avowal 
of bis errors, and his avowal was a reparation. 
His native Jiarte never forsaking him a mo- 
ment, the value of a frank acknowledgment 
was enhanced tenfold towards a generous mind, 
from its never being attended with servility. 
His mind, organized only for the stronger and 
more acute operation of the passions, was im- 
practicable to the efforts of superciliousness 
that would have depressed it into humility, 
and equally superior to the encroachments of 
venal suggestions that might have led him into 
the mazes of hypocrisy. 

" It has been observed, that he was far from 
averse to the incense of flattery, and could re- 
ceive it tempered with less delicacy than might 
have been expected, as he seldom transgressed 
in that way himself j where he paid a compli- 
ment, it might indeed claim the power of in- 
toxication, as approbation from him was always 
an honest tribute from the warmth and sincerity 
of his heart. It has been sometimes repre- 
sented by those who it should seem had a view 
to detract from, though they could not hope 
wholly to obscure that native brilliancy, which 
the powers of this extraordinary man had in- 
variably bestowed on every thing that came 
from his lips or pen, that the history of the 
Ayrshire ploughboy was an ingenious Action, 
fabricated for the purposes of obtaining the in- 
terests of the great, and enhancing the merits 
of what in reality required no foil. The Cot- 
ter's Saturday Night, Tarn o' Shanter, and the 
Mountain Daisy, besides a number of later 
productions, where the maturity of his genius 
will be readily traced, and which will be given 
the public as soon as his friends have collected 
and arranged them, speak sufficiently for them- 
selves ; and had they fallen from a hand more 
dignified in the ranks of society than that of a 
peasant, they had perhaps bestowed as unusual 
a grace there, as even in the humbler shade of 
rustic inspiration from whence they really 
sprung. 

" To the obscure scene of Burns's education, 
and to the laborious, though honourable sta- 
tion of rural industry, in which his parentage 
enrolled him, almost every inhabitant in the 
south of Scotland can give testimony. His 
only surviving brother, Gilbert Burns, now 
guides the ploughshare of bis forefathers in 
Ayrshire, at a small farm near Mauchline ;* 



lxxvm 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 



and our poet's eldest son, (a lad of nine years 
of age, whose early dispositions already prove 
Mm to be the inheritor of his father's talents as 
well as indigence,) has been destined by his 
family to the humble employments of the 
loom.* 

" That Burns had received no classical edu- 
cation, and was acquainted with the Greek and 
Roman authors only through the medium of 
translations, is a fact that can be indisputably 
proven. I have seldom seen him at a loss in 
conversation, unless where the dead languages 
and their writers were the subjects of discus- 
sion. When I have pressed him to tell me 
why he never took pains to acquire the Latin, 
"n particular, a language which his happy me- 
mory had so soon enabled him to be master of, 
he used only to reply with a smile, that he 
already knew all the Latin he desired to learn, 
and that was, omnia vincit amor ,• a phrase, that 
from his writings and most favourite pursuits, 
it should undoubtedly seem he was most 
thoroughly versed in ; but I really believe his 
classical erudition extended little, if any, 
further. 

" The penchant Mr Burns had uniformly 
acknowledged for the festive pleasures of the 
table, and towards the fairer and softer objects 
of nature's creation, has been the rallying point 
where the attacks of his censors, both pious 
and moral, have been directed ; and to these, 
it must be confessed, he showed himself no 
stoic. His poetical pieces blend with alternate 
happiness of description, the frolic spirit of 
the joy-inspiring bowl, or melt the heart to the 
tender and impassioned sentiments in which 
beauty always taught him to pour forth his 
own. But who would wish to reprove the 
failings he has consecrated with such lively 
touches of nature ? And where is the rugged 
moralist who will persuade us so far to ' chill 
the genial current of the soul,' as to regret that 
Ovid ever celebrated his Corinna, or that 
Anacreon sung beneath his vine ? 

" I will not, however, undertake to be the 
apologist of the irregularities, even of a man 
of genius, though I believe it is certainly un- 
derstood that genius never was free of irregu- 
larities, as that their absolution may in a great 
measure be justly claimed, since it is certain 
that the world had continued very stationary 
in its intellectual acquirements, had it never 
given birth to any but men of plain sense. 
Evenness of conduct, and a due regard to the 
decorums of the world, have been so rarely 
seen to move hand in hand with genius, that 
some have gone as far as to say, though there 
I cannot acquiesce, that they are even incom- 
patible ; besides, the frailties that cast their 
shade over superior merit, are more conspicu- 
ously glaring, than where they are the attend- 
ants of mere mediocrity : it is only on the gem 
we are disturbed to see the dust ; the pebble 



estate of Closeburn, and is a tei 
Monteith. 

* This destination is 



it of the venerable Dr 
iw altered. 



may be soiled, and we never mind it. The 
eccentric intuitions of genius, too often yield 
the soul to the wild effervescence of desires, 
always unbounded, and sometimes equally 
dangerous to the repose of others as fatal to its 
own. No wonder then if virtue herself be 
sometimes lost in the blaze of kindling anima- 
tion, or that the calm monitions of reason were 
not found sufficient to fetter an imagination, 
which scorned the narrow limits and restrictions 
that would chain it to the level of ordinary 
minds. The child of nature, the child of sen- 
sibility, unbroke to the refrigerative precepts of 
philosophy, untaught always to vanquish the 
passions which were the only source of his 
frequent errors, Burns makes his own artless 
apology in terms more forcible, than all the 
argumentatory vindications in the world could 
do, in one of his poems, where he delineates, 
with his usual simplicity, the progress of his 
mind, and its first expansion to the lessons of 
the tutelary muse. 

' I saw thy pulse's maddening play, 
Wild send thee Pleasure's devious way, 
Misled by Fancy's meteor ray, 
By Passion driven ; 
But yet the "light that led astray, 

Was light from Heav'n.'* 

" I have already transgressed far beyond the 
bounds I had proposed to myself, on first 
committing to paper these sketches, which 
comprehend what at least I have been led to 
deem the leading features of Burns's mind and 
character. A critique, either literary or moral, 
I do not aim at ; mine is wholly fulfilled, if in 
these paragraphs I have been able to delineate 
any of those strong traits that distinguished 
him, of those talents which raised him from 
the plough, where he passed the bleak morn- 
ing of his life, weaving his rude wreaths of 
poesy with the wild field-flowers that sprung 
round his cottager to that enviable eminence 
of literary fame, where Scotland will long 
cherish his memory with delight and gratitude ; 
and proudly remember, that beneath her cold 
sky, a genius was ripened without care or cul- 
ture, that would have done honour to the 
genial temperature of climes better adapted to 
cherishing its germs ; to the perfecting of 
those luxuriances, that warmth of fancy and 
colouring, in which he so eminently excelled. 

" From several paragraphs I have noticed in 
the public prints, even since the idea of send- 
ing these thither was formed, I find private 
animosities are not yet subsided, and envy has 
not yet done her part. I still trust that honest 
fame will be affixed to Burns's reputation, 
which he will be found to have merited by the 
candid of his countrymen ; and where a kin- 
dred bosom is found that has been taught to 
glow with the fires that animated Burns, 
should a recollection of the imprudences that 

* Page 110. 



LIF K OF ROBERT BURNS. 



Ixxix 



-sullied his brighter qualifications interpose, let 
him remember at the same time the imperfec- 
tion of all human excellence ; and leave those 
inconsistencies which alternately exalted his 
nature to the seraph, and sunk it again into 
the man, to the tribunal which alone can inves- 
tigate the labyrinths of the human heart — 

* Where they alike in trembling hope repose; — 
The bosom of his father, and his God.' 

Gray's Elegy. 
" Annandale, Aug. 7, 1796." 



After this account of the life and personal 
character of Burns, it may be expected that 
some inquiry should be made into his literary j 
merits. It will not however be necessary to 
enter very minutely into this investigation, j 
If fiction be, as some suppose, the soul of , 
poetry, no one had ever less pretensions to the 
name of poet than Burns. Though he has j 
displayed great powers of imagination, yet the j 
subjects on which he has written, are seldom, 
if ever, imaginary ; his poems, as well as his . 
letters, may be considered as the effusions of 
his sensibility, and the transcript of his own 
musings on the real incidents of his humble 
life. If we add, that they also contain most 
happy delineations of the characters, manners, 
and scenery that presented themselves to his 
observation, we shall include almost all the 
subjects of his muse. His writings may 
therefore be regarded as affording a great part 
of the data on which our account of his per- 
sonal character has been founded; and most 
of the observations we have applied to the 
man, are applicable, with little variation, to 
the poet. 

The impression of his birth, and of his ori- 
ginal station in life, was not more evident on 
his form and manners, than on his poetical 
productions. The incidents which form the 
subjects of his poems, though some of them 
highly interesting, and susceptible of poetical 
imagery, are incidents in the life of a peasant 
who takes no pains to disguise the lowliness 
of his condition, or to throw into shade the 
circumstances attending it, which more feeble 
or more artificial minds would have endeavour- 
ed to conceal. The same rudeness and inat- 
tention appears in the formation of his rhymes, 
which are frequently incorrect, while the 
measure in which many of the poems are 
written has little of the pomp or harmony of 
modern versification, and is indeed, to an 
English ear, strange and uncouth. The 
greater part of his earlier poems are written in 
the dialect of his country, which is obscure, if 
not unintelligible to Englishmen, and which, 
though it still adheres more or less to the 
speech of almost every Scotchman, all the 
polite and the ambitious are now endeavouring 
to banish from their tongues as well as their 
writings. The use of it in composition na- 



turally therefore calls up ideas of vulgarity in 
the mind. These singularities are increased 
by the character of the poet, who delights to 
express himself with a simplicity that ap- 
proaches to nakedness, and with an unmeasured 
energy that often alarms delicacy, and some- 
times offends taste. Hence, in approaching 
him, the first impression is perhaps repulsive : 
there is an air of coarseness about him, which 
is difficultly reconciled with our established 
notions of poetical excellence. 

As the reader, however, becomes better 
acquainted with the poet, the effects of his 
peculiarities lessen. He perceives in his 
poems, even on the lowest subjects, expressions 
of sentiment, and delineations of manners, 
which are highly interesting. The scenery he 
describes is evidently taken from real life ; the 
characters he introduces, and the incidents he 
relates, have the impression of nature and 
truth. His humour, though wild and un 
bridled, is irresistibly amusing, and is some- 
times heightened in its effects by the introduc- 
tion of emotions of tenderness, with which 
genuine humour so happily unites. Nor is 
this the extent of his power. The reader, as 
he examines farther, discovers that the poet is 
not confined to the descriptive, the humorous, 
or the pathetic : he is found, as occasion offers, 
to rise with ease into the terrible and the 
sublime. Every where he appears devoid of 
artifice, performing what he attempts with 
little apparent effort ; and impressing on the 
offspring of his fancy the stamp of his under- 
standing. The reader, capable of forming a 
just estimate of poetical talents, discovers in 
these circumstances marks of uncommon 
genius, and is willing to investigate more 
minutely its nature and its claim to originality. 
This last point we shall examine first. 

That Burns had not the advantages of a 
classical education, or of any degree of ac- 
quaintance with the Greek or Roman writers 
in their original dress, has appeared in the 
history of his life. He acquired, indeed, some 
knowledge of the French language, but it does 
not appear that he was ever much conversant 
in French literature, nor is there any evidence 
of his having derived any of his poetical stories 
from that source. With the English classics 
he became well acquainted in the course of his 
life, and the effects of this acquaintance are 
observable in his latter productions ; but the 
character and style of his poetry were formed 
very early, and the model which he followed, 
in as far as he can be said to have had one, is 
to be sought for in the works of the poets 
who have written in the Scottish dialect — in 
the works of such of them more especially, as 
are familiar to the peasantry of Scotland. 
Some observations on these may form a pro- 
per introduction to a more particular examina- 
tion of the poetry of Burns. The studies of 
the editor in this direction are indeed very 
recent and very imperfect. It would have 
been imprudent for him to have entered on 



Ixxx 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 



this subject at all, but for the kindness of Mr 
Ramsay of Ochtertyre, whose assistance he is 
proud to acknowledge, and to whom the reader 
must ascribe whatever is of any value in the 
following imperfect sketch of literary compo- 
sitions in the Scottish idiom. 

It is a circumstance not a little curious, and 
which does not seem to be satisfactorily ex- 
plained, that in the thiiteenth century, the 
language of the two British nations, if at all 
different, differed only in dialect, the Gaelic in 
the one, like the Welch and Armoric in the 
other, being confined to the mountainous dis- 
tricts.* The English under the Edwards, and 
the Scots under Wallace and Bruce, spoke the 
same language. We may observe also, that in 
Scotland the history ascends to a period nearly 
as remote as in England. Barbour and Blind 
Harry, James the First, Dunbar, Douglas, and 
Lindsay, who lived in the fourteenth, fifteenth, 
and sixteenth centuries, were coeval with the 
fathers of poetry in England ; and in the 
opinion of Mr Wharton, not inferior to them 
in genius or in composition. Though the 
language of the two countries gradually devi- 
ated from each other during this period, yet 
the difference on the whole was not considera- 
ble ; nor perhaps greater than between the 
different dialects of the different parts of Eng- 
land in our own time. 

At the death of James the Fifth, in 154-2, 
the language of Scotland was in a flourishing 
condition, wanting only writers in prose equal 
to those in verse. Two circumstances, pro- 
pitious on the whole, operated to prevent this. 
The first was the pas^on of the Scots for 
composition in Latin ; and the second, the 
accession of James the Sixth to the English 
throne. It may easily be imagined, that if 
Buchanan had devoted his admirable talents, 
even in part, to the cultivation of his native 
tongue, as was done by the revivers of letters 
in Italy, he would have left compositions in 
that language which might have excited other 
men of genius to have followed his example, f 
and given duration to the language itself. The 
union of the two crowns in the person of 
James, overthrew all reasonable expectation of 
this kind. That monarch, seated on the 
English throne, would no longer be addressed 
in the rude dialect in which the Scottish 
clergy had so often insulted his dignity. He 
encouraged Latin or English only, both of 
which he prided himself on writing with purity, 
though he himself never could acquire the 
English pronunciation, but spoke with a Scot- 
tish idiom and intonation to the last. Scots- 
men of talents declined writing in their native 
language, which they knew was not acceptable 
to their learned and pedantic monarch ; and at 
a time when national prejudice and enmity 



* Historical Essays on Scottish Song, p. 20, bv Mi 
f e. s. The Authors of the Deliciie Poetarum Scoto- 



prevailed to a great degic, they disdained to 
study the niceties of the English tongue, 
though of so much easier acquisition than a 
dead language. Lord Stirling and Drummond 
of Hawthornden, the only Scotsmen who. 
wrote poetry in those times, were exceptions. 
They studied the language of England, and 
composed in it with precision and elegance. 
They were however the last of their country- 
men who deserved to be considered as poets 
in that century. The muses of Scotland sunk 
into silence, and did not again raise their voices 
for a period of eighty years. 

To what causes are we to attribute this ex- 
treme depression among a people comparatively 
learned, enterprising, and ingenious? Shall 
impute it to the fanaticism of the coven- 
anters, or to the tyranny of the house of Stuart 
after their restoration to the throne? Doubt- 
less these causes operated, but they seem un- 
equal to account for the effect. In England, 
sin ilar distractions and oppressions took place, 
yet poetry flourished there in a remarkable 
decree. During this period, Cowley, and 
Waller, and Dryden sung, and Milton raised 
his strain of unparalleled grandeur. To the 
causes already mentioned, another must be 
ariued, in accounting for the torpor of Scottish 
literature — the want of a proper vehicle for 
nun of genius to employ. The civil wars had 
frightened away the Latin muses, and no 
standard had been established of the Scottish 
tongue, which was deviating still farther from 
the pure English idiom. 

The revival of literature in Scotland may 
be dated from the establishment of the union, 
or rather from the extinction of the rebellion 
in 1715. The nations being finally incorpo- 
rated, it was clearly seen that their tongues 
must in the end incorporate also ; or rather in- 
deed that the Scottish language must degener- 
ate into a provincial idiom, to be avoided by 
those who would aim at distinction in letters, 
or rise to eminence in the united legislature. 

Soon after this, a band of men of genius ap- 
peared, who studied the English classics, and 
imitated their beauties, in the same manner 
as they studied the classics of Greece and 
Rome. They had admirable models of com- 
position lately presented to them by the 
writers of the reign of Queen Anne ; particu- 
larly in the periodical papers published by 
Steele, Addison, and their associated friends, 
which circulated widely through Scotland, and 
diffused every where a taste for purity of style 
and sentiment, and for critical disquisition. 
At length, the Scottish writers succeeded ia 
English composition, and a union was formed 
of the literary talents, as well as of the legisla- 
tures of the two nations. On this occasion 
the poets took the lead. While Henry Home,* 
Dr Wallace, and their learned associates,, 
were only laying in their intellectual stores, 
and studying to clear themselves of their Scot- 



LIFK OK ROBERT BURNS. 



lxx 



tish idioms, Thomson, Mallet, and Hamilton 
of Bangour, had made their appearance before 
the public, and been enrolled on the list of 
English poets. The writers in prose follow- 
ed — a numerous and powerful band, and 
poured their ample stores into the general 
stream of British literature. Scotland pos- 
sessed her four universities before the acces- 
sion of James to the English throne. Im- 
mediately before the union, she acquired her 
parochial schools. These establishments com- 
bining happily together, made the elements of 
knowledge of easy acquisition, and presented 
a direct path, by which the ardent student 
might he carried along into the recesses of 
science or learning. As civil broils ceased, 
and faction and prejudice gradually died away, 
a wider field was opened to literary ambition, 
and the influence of the Scottish institutions 
for instruction, on the productions of the press, 
became more and more apparent. 

It seems indeed probable, that the establish- 
ment of the parochial schools produced effects 
on the rural muse of Scotland also, which have 
not hitherto been suspected, and which, though 
less splendid in their nature, are not however 
to be regarded as trivial, whether we consider 
the happiness or the morals of the people. 

There is some reason to believe, that the 
original inhabitants of the British isles pos- 
sessed a peculiar and interesting species of 
music, which being banished from the plains 
by the successive invasions of the Saxons, 
Danes, and Normans, was preserved with 
the native race, in the wilds of Ireland and 
in the mountains of Scotland and Wales. 
The Irish, the Scottish, and the Welsh music, 
differ indeed from each other, but the differ- 
ence may be considered as in dialect only, and 
probably produced by the influence of time, 
like the different dialects of their common 
language. If this conjecture be true, the Scot- 
tish music must be more immediately of a 
Highland origin, and the Lowland tunes, 
though now of a character somewhat distinct, 
must have descended from the mountains in 
remote ages. Whatever credit may be given 
to conjectures, evidently involved in great un- 
certainty, there can be no doubt that the 
Scottisli peasantry have been long in posses- 
sion of a number of songs and ballads com- 
posed in their native dialect, and sung to 
their native music. The subjects of these 
compositions were such as most interested 
the simple inhabitants, and in the succession of 
time varied probably as the condition of society 
varied. During the separation and the hos- 
tility of the two nations, these aongs and 
ballads, as far as our imperfect documents 
enable us to judge, were chiefly warlike; such 
as the Huntis of Cheviot, and the Battle of 
Harlaiv. After the union of the two crowns, 
when a certain degree of peace and tranquil- 
lity took place, the rural muse of Scotland 
breathed in softer accents. " In the want of 
real evidence respecting the history of our 



songs," says Ramsay of Ochtertyre, " recourse 
may be had to conjecture. One would be 
disposed to think, that the most beautiful of 
the Scottish tunes were clothed with new- 
words after the union of the crowns. The 
inhabitants of the borders, who had formerly 
been warriors from choice, and husbandmen 
from necessity, either quitted the country, or 
were transformed into real shepherds, easy in 
their circumstances, and satisfied with their 
lot. Some sparks of that spirit of chivalry 
for which they are celebrated by P'roissart, re- 
mained sufficient to inspire elevation of senti 
ment and gallantry towards the fair sex. The 
familiarity and kindness which had long sub- 
sisted between the gentry and the peasantry, 
could not all at once be obliterated, and this 
connexion tended to sweeten rural life. In 
this state of innocence, ease, and tranquillity 
of mind, the love of poetry and music would 
still maintain its ground, though it would na- 
turally assume a form congenial to the more 
peaceful state of society. The minstrels, whose 
metrical tales used once to rouse the borderers 
like the trumpet's sound, had been, by an order 
of the Legislature (1579), classed with rogues 
and vagabonds, and attempted to be suppressed. 
Knox and his disciples influenced the Scottish 
parliament, but contended in vain with her 
rural muse. Amidst our Arcadian vales, pro- 
bably on the banks of the Tweed, or some of 
its tributary streams, one or more original ge- 
niuses mayhave arisen who were destined to give 
a new turn to the taste of their countrymen. 
They would see that the events and pursuits 
which chequer private life were the proper sub- 
jects for popular poetry. ' Love, which had for- 
merly held a divided sway with glory and 
ambition, became now the master-passion of 
the soul. To portray in lively and delicate 
colours, though with a hasty hand, the hopes 
and fears that agitate the breast of the love-sick 
swain, or forlorn maiden, afford ample scope to 
the rural poet. Love-songs, of which Tibullus 
himself would not have been ashamed, might 
be composed by an uneducated rustic with a 
slight tincture of letters ; or if in these songs 
the character of the rustic be sometimes assum- 
ed, the truth of character, and the language of 
nature, are preserved. With unaffected sim- 
plicity and tenderness, topics are urged, most 
likely to soften the heart of a cruel and coy 
mistress, or to regain a fickle lover. Even in 
such as are of a melancholy cast, a ray of hope 
breaks through, and dispels the deep and settled 
gloom which characterizes the sweetest of the 
Highland luinays, or vocal airs. Nor are these 
songs all plaintive ; many of them are lively 
and humorous, and some appear to us coarse 
and indelicate. They seem, however, genuine 
descriptions of the manners of an energetic and 
sequestered people in their hours of mirth and 
festivity, though in their portraits some objects 
are brought into open view, which more fasti- 
dious painters would have thrown into shade." 
" As those rural poets sung for nmnsertient 



Ixxx 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 



not for gain, their effusions seldom exceeded a 
love-song, or a ballad of satire or humour, 
which, like the words of the elder minstrels, 
were seldom committed to writing, but trea- 
sured up in the memory of their friends and 
neighbours. Neither known to the learned 
nor patronized by the great, these rustic bards 
lived and died in obscurity ; and by a strange 
fatality, their story, and even their very names 
have been forgotten* When proper models 
for pastoral songs were produced, there would 
be no want of imitators. To succeed in this 
species of composition, soundness of under- 
standing and sensibility of heart were more re- 
quisite than flights of imaginHtion cr pomp of 
numbers. Great changes have certainly taken 
place in Scottish song-writing, though we can- 
not trace the steps of this change ; and few of 
the pieces admired in Queen Mary's time are 
now to be discovered in modern collections. 
It is possible, though not probable, that the 
music may have remained nearly the same, 
though the words to the tunes were entirely 
new-modelled."f 

These conjectures are highly ingenious. It 
cannot, however, be presumed, that the state 
of ease and tranquillity described by Mr Ram- 
say took place among the Scottish peasantry 
immediately on the union of the crowns, or in- 
deed during the greater part of the seventeenth 
century. The Scottish nation, through all 
ranks, was deeply agitated by the civil wars, 
and the religious persecutions which succeeded 
each other in that disastrous period ; it was 
not till after the revolution in 1G88, and the 
subsequent establishment of their beloved form 
of church government, that the peasantry of 
the Lowlands enjoyed comparative repose ; and 
it is since that period that a great number of 
the most admired Scottish songs have been 
produced, though the tunes to which they are 
sung, are in general of much greater antiquity. 
It is not unreasonable to suppose, that the 
peace and security derived from the Revolu- 
tion, and the Union, produced a favourable 
change on the rustic poetry of Scotland ; and 
it can scarcely be doubted, that the institution 
of parish schools in 1696, by which a certain 
degree of instruction was diffused universally 
among the peasantry, contributed to this happy 
effect. 

Soon after this appeared Allan Ramsay, the 
Scottish Theocritus. He was bom on the 
high mountains that divide Clydesdale and 
Annandale, in a small hamlet by the banks of 
Glengonar, a stream which descends into the 
Clyde. The ruins of this hamlet are still 



rved. 

f Extract of a letter from Mr Ramsay of Ochtertyre 
to the Editor, Sept 11, 1799. In the Bee, Vol. II. p. 
201, is a communication of Mr Ramsay, under the signa- 
ture of J. Runcole, which enters into this subject some. 
what more at large. In that paper he gives his reasons 
for questioning- the antiquity of many of the celebrated 
Scottish Songs. 



shown to the inquiring traveller.* He was ths 
son of a peasant, and probably received such 
instruction as his parish-school bestowed, and 
ths poverty of his parents admitted.! Ramsay 
made his appearance in Edinburgh, in the be- 
ginning of the present century, in the humble 
character of an apprentice to a barber; he was 
then fourteen or fifteen years of age. By de- 
grees he acquired notice for his social disposi- 
tion, and his talent for the composition of 
verses in the Scottish idiom ; and, changing 
his profession for that of a bookseller, he be- 
came intimate with many of the literary, as 
well as the gay and fashionable characters of 
his time.t Having published a volume of 
poems of his own in 1721, which was favour- 
ably received, he undertook to make a collec- 
tion of ancient Scottish poems, under the title 
of the Ever- Green, and was afterwards encour- 
aged to present to the world a collection of 
Scottish songs. " From what sources he pro* 
cured them," says Ramsay of Ochtertyrej 
" whether from tradition or manuscript, is un- 
certain. As in the Ever-Green he made some 
rash attempts to improve on the originals of 
his ancient poems, he probably used still great- 
er freedom with the songs and ballads. The 
truth cannot, however, be known on this point, 
till manuscripts of the songs printed by him, 
more ancient than the present century, shall be 
produced, or access be obtained to his own pa- 
pers, if they are still in existence. To several 
tunes which either wanted words, or had words 
that were improper or imperfect, he or his 
friends adapted verses worthy of the melodies 
they accompanied, worthy indeed of the golden 
age. These verses were perfectly intelligible 
to every rustic, yet justly admired by persons 
of taste, who regarded them as the genuine off- 
spring of the pastoral muse. In some respects 
Ramsay had advantages not possessed by poets 
writing in the Scottish dialect in our days. 
Songs in the dialect of Cumberland or Lanca- 
shire, could never be popular, because these 
dialects have never been spoken by persons of 
fashion. But till the middle of the present 
century, every Scotsman, from the peer to the 
peasant, spoke a truly Doric language. It is 
true the English moralists and poets were by 
this time read by every person of condition, 
and considered as the standards for polite com- 
position. But, as national prejudices were still 



* See Campbell's History of Poetry in Scotland, p. 185. 

f The father of Mr Ramsay was, it is said, a workman 
in the lead-mines of the Earl of Hopetoun, at Lead-hills. 
The workmen at those mines at present are of a very 
superior character to miners in general. They have 
only six hours of labour in the day, and have time for 
reading 1 . They have a common library supported by 
contribution, containing several thousand volumes. 
When this was instituted I have not learned. These 
miners are said to be of a very sober and moral charac- 
ter. Allan Ramsay, when very young, is supposed to 
have been a washer of ore in these mines. 

t " He was coeval with Joseph Mitchell, and his club 
oi small wits, who, about 1719, published a very poor 
miscellany, to which Dr Young, the author of the 
Night Thoughts, prefixed a copy of verses." Extract 
of a letter from Mr Ramsay ofOchtertyre to the Editor. 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 



etrong, the busy, the learned, the gay, and the 
fair continued to speak their native dialect, and 
that with an elegance and poignancy of which 
Scotsmen of the present day can have no just 
notion. I am old enough to have conversed 
with Mr Spittal, of Leuchat, a scholar and a 
man ot fashion, who survived all the members 
cf the Union Parliament, in which he had a 
eat. His pronunciation and phraseology dif- 
fered as much from the common dialect, as the 
language of St James's from that of Thames 
Street. Had we retained a court and parlia- 
ment of our own, the tongues of the two sister 
kingdoms would indeed have differed like the 
Castilian and Portuguese ; but each would 
have its own classics, not in a single branch, 
ut in the whole circle of literature. 

" Ramsay associated with the men of wit 
and fashion of his day, and several of them at- 
tempted to write poetry in his manner. Per- 
sons too idle or too dissipated to think of 
compositions that required much exertion, 
succeeded very happily in making tender son- 
nets to favourite tunes in compliment to their 
mistresses, and transforming themselves into 
impassioned shepherds, caught the language of 
the diameters they assumed. Thus, about the 
year 1731, Robert Crawfurd of Auchinames, 
wrote the modern song of Tweedside,* which 
has been so much admired. In 1713, Sir 
Gilbert Elliot, the first of our lawyers who both 
spoke and wrote English elegantly, composed, 
in the character of a love-sick swain, a beauti- 
ful song, beginning, My sheep I neglected, I 
lost my sheep-hook, on the marriage of his mis- 
tress, Miss Forbes, with Ronald Crawfurd. 
And about twelve years afterwards, the sister 
of Sir Gilbert wrote the ancient words to the 
tune of the Flowers of the Fores t,f and supposed 
to allude to the battle of Flowden. In spite 
of the double rhyme, it is a sweet, and though 
in some parts allegorical, a natural expression 
of national sorrow. The more modern words 
to the same tune, beginning, / have seen the 
smiling of fortune beguiling, were written long 
before by Mrs Cockburn, a woman of great 
wit, who outlived all the first group of literati 
of the present century, all of whom were very 
fond of her. I was delighted with her company, 
though when I saw her, she was very old. 
Much did she know that is now lost." 

In addition to these instances of Scottish 
songs, produced in the earlier part of the present 
century, may be mentioned the ballad of Hardi- 
knute, by Lady Wardlaw ; the ballad of William 
and Margaret ; and the song entitled the Birhs 
cf Invermay, by Mallet ; the love-song, begin- 
ning, JPor ever, Fortune, xoilt thou prove, pro- 
duced by the youthful muse of Thomson; and 
the exquisite pathetic ballad, the Braes of 
Yarrow, by Hamilton of Bangour. On the 
revival of letters in Scotland, subsequent to the 
Union, a very general taste seems to have pre- 



vailed for the national songs and music. " Fop 
many years," says Mr Ramsay, " tbe singing of 
songs was the great delight of the higher and 
middle order of the people, as well as of the 
peasantry ; and though a taste for Italian music 
has interfered with this amusement, it is still 
very prevalent. Between forty and fifty years 
ago, the common people were not only exceed- 
ingly fond of songs and ballads, but of metrical 
history. Often have I, in my cheerful morn 
of youth, listened to them with delight, when 
reading or reciting the exploits of Wallace and 
Bruce against the Southrons. Lord Hailes 
was wont to call Blind Harry their Bible, he 
being their great favourite next the Scriptures. 
When, therefore, one in the vale of life felt the 
first emotion of genius, he wanted not models 
sui generis. But though the seeds of poetry 
were scattered with a plentiful hand among the 
Scottish peasantry, the product was probably 
like that of pears and apples — of a thousand 
that sprung up, nine hundred and fifty are so 
bad as to set the teeth on edge ; forty-five or 
more are passable and useful ; and the rest of 
an exquisite flavour. Allan Ramsay and 
Burns are wildings of this last description. 
They had the example of the elder Scottish 
poets ; they were not without the aid of the best 
English writers; and, what was of still more 
importance, they were no strangers to the book 
of nature, and to the book of God." 

From this general view, it is apparent that 
Allan Ramsay may be considered as in a great 
measure the reviver of the rural poetry of his 
country. His collection of ancient Scottish 
poems under the name of The Ever- Green, his 
collection of Scottish songs, and his own poems, 
the principal of which is the Gentle Shepherd, 
have been universally read among the peasantry 
of his country, and have in some degree super- 
seded the adventures of Bruce and Wallace, 
as recorded by Barbour and Blind Harry. 
Burns was well acquainted with all of these. 
He had also before him the poems of Fergusson 
in the Scottish dialect, which have been produc- 
ed in our own times, and of which it will be 
necessary to give a short account. 

Fergusson was born of parents who had it in 
their power to procure him a liberal education, 
a circumstance, however, which in Scotland, 
implies no very high rank in society. From 
a well written and apparently authentic account 
of his life,* we learn that he spent six years 
at the schools of Edinburgh and Dundee and se- 
veral years at the universities of Edinburgh and 
St Andrew's. It appears that he was at one time 
destined for the Scottish church ; but as he ad 
vanced towards manhood, he renounced that 
intention, and at Edinburgh entered the office 
of a writer to the signet, a title which desig- 
nates and separates a higher order of Scottish 
attorneys. Fergusson had sensibility of mind, 
a warm and generous heart, and talents for so- 



* In tlie Supplement to the Encyclopedia Britannica, 
See also, Campbells Introduction to the History of Po* 
etry in Scotland, See p. 288. 



Ixxxiy 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 



ciety, of the most attractive kind. To such a 
man no situation could be more dangerous than 
that in which he was placed. The excesses 
into which he was led, impaired his feeble con- 
stitution, and he sunk under them in the 
month of October, 1774, in his 23d or 24th 
year. Burns was not acquainted with the 
poems of this youthful genius when he him- 
self began to write poetry ; and when he first 
saw them, he had renounced the muses. But 
while he resided in the town of Irvine, meeting 
with Fergusson's Scottish Poems, he informs 
us that he " strung his lyre anew with emulat- 
ing vigour."* Touched by the sympathy ori- 
ginating in kindred genius, and in the forebod- 
ings of similar fortune, Burns regarded Fergus- 
son with a partial and an affectionate admira- 
tion. Over his grave he erected a monument, 
as has already been mentioned ; and his poems 
he has in several instances, made the subjects 
of his imitation. 

From this account of the Scottish poems 
known to Burns, those who are acquainted 
with them will see they are chiefly humorous 
or pathetic ; and under one or other of these 
descriptions most of his own poems will class. 
Let us compare him with his predecessors un- 
der each of these points of view, and close our 
examination with a few general observations. 

It has frequently been observed, that Scot- 
land has produced, comparatively speaking, few 
writers who have excelled in humour. But 
this observation is true only when applied to 
those who have continued to reside in their 
own country, and have confined themselves to 
composition in pure English ; and in these cir- 
cumstances it admits of an easy explanation. 
The Scottish poets, who have written in the dia- 
lect of Scotland, have been at all times remark- 
able for dwelling on subjects of humour, in which 
indeed some of them have excelled. It would 
be easy to show, that the dialect of Scotland 
having become provincial, is now scarcely suit- 
ed to the more elevated kinds of poetry. If 
we may believe that the poem of Christis Kirk 
of the Grene was written by James the First 
of Scotland, t this accomplished monarch, who 
had received an English education under Hen- 
ry the Fourth, and who bore arms under his 
gallant successor, gave the model on which the 
greater part of the humorous productions of 
the rustic muse of Scotland had been formed. 
Cliristis Kirk of the Grene was reprinted by 
Ramsay, somewhat modernized in the ortho- 
graphy, and two cantos were added by him, in 
which he attempts to carry on the design. 
Hence the poem of King James is usually 
printed in Ramsay's works. The royal bard 



• See p. xxxi. 

t Notwithstanding the evidence produced on thissub- 
ject by Mr Tytler, the Editor acknowledges his being 
somewhat of a sceptic on this point Sir David Dalrym. 
pie inclines to the opinion that it was written by his 
successor James the Fifth. There are difficulties attend. 
iiig this supposition also. But oc the subject of Scot- 
tish Antiquities the Editor is an incompetent judge. 



describes, in the first canto, a rustic dance, and 
afterwards a contention in archery, ending in 
an affray. Ramsay relates the restoration of 
concord, and the renewal of the rural sports 
with the humours of a country wedding. 
Though each of the poets describes the man- 
ners of his respective age, yet in the whole 
piece there is a very sufficient uniformity; a 
striking proof of the identity of character ia 
the Scottish peasantry at the two periods, dis- 
tant from each other three hundred years. It 
is an honourable distinction to this body of 
men, that their character and manners, very 
little embellished, have been found to be sus- 
ceptible of an amusing and interesting species 
of poetry ; and it must appear not a little cu- 
rious, that the single nation of modern Europe 
which possesses an original poetry, should have 
received the model, followed by their rustic 
bards, from the monarch on the throne. 

The two additional cantos to Christis Kirk 
of the Grene, written by Ramsay, though ob- 
jectionable in point of delicacy, are among the 
happiest of his productions. His chief excel- 
lence indeed, lay in the description of rural 
characters, incidents, and scenery ; for he did " 
not possess any very high powers either of im- 
agination or of understanding. He was well 
acquainted with the peasantry of Scotland* 
their lives and opinions. The subject 
was in a great measure new ; his talents 
were equal to the subject, and he has 
shown that it may be happily adapted to- 
pastoral poetry. In his Gentle Shepherd, the 
characters are delineations from nature, the 
descriptive parts are in the genuine style of 
beautiful simplicity, the passions and affections 
of rural life are finely portrayed, and the 
heart is pleasingly interested in the happiness 
that is bestowed on innocence and virtue. 
Throughout the whole there is an air of reality 
which the most careless reader cannot but per- 
ceive ; and in fact no poem ever perhaps acquir- 
ed so high a reputation, in which truth receiv- 
ed so little embellishment from the imagination. 
In his pastoral songs, and his rural tales, Ram- 
say appears to less advantage, indeed, but still 
with considerable attraction. The story of the 
Monk and the Miller's Wife, though somewhat 
licentious, may rank with the happiest produc- 
tions of Prior or La Fontaine. But when he 
attempts subjects from higher life, and aims at 
pure English composition, he is feeble and' 
uninteresting, and seldom even reaches medio- 
crity.* Neither are his familiar epistles and 
elegies in the Scottish dialect entitled to much 
approbation. Though Fergusson had higher 
powers of imagination than Ramsay, his genius 
was not of the highest order; nor did his 
learning, which was considerable, improve his 
genius. His poems written in pure English,. 
in which he often follows classical models* 
though superior to the English poems of Ram- 
say, seldom rise above mediocrity ; but in those- 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 



composed in tbe Scottish dialect he is often 
very successful. He was, in general, however, 
less happy than Ramsay in the subjects of his 
muse. As he spent the greater part of his life 
in Edinburgh, and wrote for his amusement in 
the intervals of business or dissipation, his 
Scottish poems are chiefly founded on the in- 
cidents of a town life, which, though they are 
not susceptible of humour, do not admit of 
those delineations of scenery and manners, 
which vivify the rural poetry of Ramsay, and 
which so agreeably amuse the fancy and interest 
the heart. The town eclogues of Fergusson, 
if we may so denominate them, are however 
faithful to nature, and often distinguished by a 
very happy vein of humour. His poems enti- 
tled The Dnft Davs, The King's Birth-day in 
Edinburgh, Leith Races, and the Hallow Fair, 
will justify this character. In these, particu- 
larly in the last, he imitated ChristisKirkofthe 
Grene, as Ramsay had done before him. His 
Address to the Tron-hirh Bell is an exquisite 
piece of humour, which Burns has scarcely ex- 
celled. In appreciating the genius of Fergus- 
son, it ought to be recollected, that his poems 
are the careless effusions of an irregular though 
amiable young man, who wrote for the periodi- 
cal papers of the day, and who died in early 
youth. Had his life been prolonged under 
happier circumstances of fortune, he would 
probably have risen to much higher reputation. 
He might have excelled in rural poetry, for 
though his professed pastorals on the establish- 
ed Sicilian model, are stale and uninteresting, 
The Farmer's Ingle,* which may be considered 
as a Scottish pastoral, is the happiest of all his 
productions, and certainly was the archetype of 
the Colter's Saturday Night. Fergusson, and 
more especially Burns, have shown, that the 
character and manners of the peasantry of 
Scotland, of the present times, are as well 
,adapted to poetry, as in the days of Ramsay, or 
of the author of Chrislis Kirk of the Grene. 

The humour of Burns is of a richer vein than 
that of Ramsay or Fergusson, both of whom, 
as he himself informs us, he had " frequently 
in his eye, but rather with a view to kindle at 
their flame, than to servile imitation." His 
.descriptive powers, whether the objects on 
which they are employed be comic or serious, 
animate, or inanimate, are of the highest order. 
— A superiority of this kind is essential to 
every species of poetical excellence. In 
of his earlier poems his plan seems to be 
to inculcate a lesson of contentment on the 
lower classes of society, by showing that 
their superiors are neither much better nor 
■happier than themselves ; and this he chooses 
to execute in the form of a dialogue between 
two dogs. He introduces this dialogue by an 
account of the persons and characters of the 
•speakers. The first, whom he has named Casar, 
is a dog of condition : — 



* The farmer's fire-side . 



" His locked, letter'd, braw brass-collar, 
Showed him the gentleman and scholar." 

High-bred though he is, he is however full of 
condescension : 

" At kirk or market, mill or smiddie, 
Nae tawted tyke, tho' e'er sae duddie, 
But he wad stan't, as glad to see him, 
An stroan't on slanes an' hillocks wi 1 him." 

The other Luath, is a " ploughman's-collie, ' 
but a cur of a good heart and a sound under 
standing. 

" His honest, sonsie, baws'nt face, 
Aye gat him friends in ilka place; 
His breast was white, his towsie back 
Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black ; 
His gaivcie tail, wi' upward curl, 
Hung o'er his hurdies wi' a swirl." 

Never were twa dogs so exquisitely delineat- 
ed. Their gambols, before they sit down to 
moralize, are described with an equal degree of 
happiness ; and through the whole dialogue, 
the character, as well as the different condition 
of the two speakers, is kept in view. The 
speech of Luath, in which he enumerates the 
comforts of the poor, gives the following ac- 
count of their merriment on the first day ot 
the year : 

" That merry day the year begins, 
They bar the door on frosty winds : 
The nappy reeks wi' mantling ream, 
And sheds a heart-inspirin' steam ; 
The luntin pipe, and sneeshin' mill, 
Are handed round wi' right guid-will; 
The canty auld folks crackin' crouse, 
The young anes rantin' thro' the house— 
My heart has been sae fain to see them, 
That I for joy hae bar kit wi' them." 

Of all the animals who have moralized on hu- 
man affairs since the days of iEsop, the dog 
seems best entitled to this privilege, as well from 
his superior sagacity, as from his being, more 
than any other, the friend and associate of man. 
The dogs of Burns, exceping in their talent 
for moralizing, are downright dogs ; and not 
like the horses of Swift, or the Hind and Pan- 
ther of Dryden, men in the shape of brutes. It 
is this circumstance that heightens the humour 
of the dialogue. The " twa dogs " are con- 
stantly kept before our eyes, and the contrast 
between their form and character as dogs, and 
the sagacity of their conversation, heightens 
the humour, and deepens the impression of 
the poet's satire. Though in this poem the 
chief excellence maybe considered as humour, 
yet great talents are displayed in its composi- 
tion ; the happiest powers of description and 
the deepest insight into the human heart* 



* When this poem first appeared, it was thought by 
some very surprising, that a peasant who had not an op- 
portunity of associating even with a simple gentleman 



lxxxvi 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 



It is seldom, however, that the humour of 
Burns appears in so simple a form. The live- 
liness of his sensibility frequently impels him 
to introduce into subjects of humour, emotions 
of tenderness or of pity ; and, where occasion 
admits, he is sometimes carried on to exert the 
higher powers of imagination. In such in- 
stances he leaves the society of Ramsay and of 
Fergusson, and associates himself with the 
masters of English poetry, whose language he 
frequently assumes. 

Of the union of tenderness and humour, ex- 
amples may be found in The Death and Dying 
Words of poor Mailie, in The auld Farmer's 
New-Year's Morning Salutation to his Mare 
Maggie, and in many other of his poems. The 
praise of whisky is a favourite subject with 
Burns. To this he dedicates his poem of 
Scotch Drink. After mentioning its cheering 
influence in a variety of situations, he describes, 
with singular liveliness and power of fancy, its 
stimulating effects on the blacksmith working 
at his forge : 

"Nae mercy, then, for aim or steel ; 
The brawnie, bainie, ploughman chiel, 
Brings hard owre-hip, wi' sturdy wheel, 

The strong fore-hammer, 
Till block an' studdie ring and reel 

W dinsome. clamour,*' 



On another occasion,* choosing to exalt 
whisky above wine, he introduces a comparison 
between the natives of more genial climes, to 
whom the vine furnishes their beverage, and 
his own countrymen who drink the spirit of 
malt. The description of the Scotsman is 
humorous; 

" But bring a Scotsman frae his hill, 
Clap in his cheek a Highland gill,f 
Say, such is royal George's will, 

An' there's the foe ; 
He has nae thought but how to kill 

Twa at a blow." 

Here the notion of danger rouses the imagi- 
nation of the poet. He goes on thus : 

M Nae cauld faint-hearted doubtings teaze him ; 
Death comes — wi' fearless eye he sees him ; 
Wi' bluidy hand a welcome gies him, 

And when he fa's, 
His latest draught o' breathing lea'es him 

In faint huzzas." 



ihould have been able to portray the character of high- 
life with such accuracy. And when it was recollected 
that he had probably been at the races of Ayr, where 
nobility as well as gentry are to be seen, it was con- 
cluded that the race ground had been the field of his 
observation. This was sagacious enough; but it did 
not requircsuch instruction to inform Burns, that hu. 
man nature is essentially the same in the high and low; 
and a genius which comprehends the human mind, easily 
comprehends the accidental varieties introduced by situ- 

* The Author's Earnest Cry and Prayer to the Scotch 
Representatives in Parliament, p. 92. 
t Of whisky. " 



Again, however, he sinks into humour, and 
concludes the poem with the following most 
laughable, but most irreverent apostrophe : 

" Scotland, my auld, respected mither ! 
Though whyles ye moistify your leather, 
'Till where you sit, on craps o' heather, 

Ye tine your dam ; 
Freedom and Whisky gang thegither, 

Tak' aff your dram !•« 

Of this union of humour, with the higher 
powers of imagination, instances may be found 
in the poem entitled Death and Dr Hornbook, 
and in almost every stanza of the Address to 
the Deil, one of the happiest of his produc- 
tions. After reproaching this terrible being 
with all his " doings " and misdeeds, in the 
course of which he passes through a series 
ef Scottish superstitions, and rises at time3 
into a high strain of poetry ; he concludes this 
address, delivered in a tone of great familiarity, 
not altogether unmixed with apprehension, in 
the following words : 

" But, fare ye weel, auld Nickie-ben 
O wad ye tak a thought an* men' ! 
Ye ablins might— 1 dinna ken — 

Still ha'e a stake— 
I'm wae to think upo' yon den 

Evn for your sake ! 

Humour and tenderness are here so happily 
intermixed, that it is impossible to say which 
preponderates. 

Fergusson wrote a dialogue between the 
Causeway and the Flainstones,* of Edinburgh* 
This probably suggested to Burns his dialogue 
between the Old and New Bridge over the river 
Ayr.f The nature of such subjects requires 
that they shall be treated humorously, and 
Fergusson has attempted nothing beyond this. 
Though the Causeway and the Flainstones 
talk together, no attempt is made to personify 
the speakers. A " cadie"i heard the conver- 
sation, and reported it to the poet. 

In the dialogue between the Brigs of Ayr, 
Burns himself is the auditor, and the time and 
occasion on which it occurred is related with 
great circumstantiality. The poet, "press'd 
by care," or " inspired by whim,"' had left hi3 
bed in the town of Ayr, and wandered out 
alone in the darkness and solitude of a winter 
night, to the mouth of the river, where the 
stillness was interrupted only by the rushing 
sound of the influx of the tide. It was after 
midnight. The Dungeon-clocks had struck 
two, and the sound had been repeated by 
Wallace- Tower. $ All else was hushed. The 
moon shone brightly, and 

" The chilly frost, beneath the silver beam, 
Crept.gently-crusting, o'er the glittering stream. -* 



* The middle of the street, and the side-way. 
i The Brigs of Ayr, p. 93. t A messenger. 

$ The two steeples cf Ayr 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 



Ixxxvii 



Jn this situation, the listening bard hears the 
"clanging sugh" of wings moving through the 
air, and speedily he perceives two beings, 
reared, the one on the Old, the other on the 
New Bridge, whose form and attire he de- 
scribes, and whose conversation with each 
Other he rehearses. These genii enter into a 
comparison of the respective edifices over 
which they preside, and afterwards, as is usual 
between the old and young, compare modern 
characters and manners with those of past 
times. They differ, as may be expected, and 
taunt and scold each other in broad Scotch. 
This conversation, which is certainly humor- 
ous, may be considered as a proper business of 
the poem. As the debate runs high, and 
threatens serious consequences, all at once it 
is interrupted by a new scene of wonders : 



' all before their sight 



A fairy train appear'd in order bright ; 
Adown the glittering stream they featly danced ; 
Bright to the moon their various dresses glanced ; 
They footed o'er the wat'ry glass so neat, 
The infant ice scarce bent beneath their feet; 
While arts of minstrelsy among them rung, 
And soul-ennobled Bards heroic ditties sung,'' 



"The Genius of the Stream in front appears, 
A venerable chief, advanced in years ; 
His hoary head with water-lilies crown'd, 
His manly leg with garter tangle bound." 

Next follow a number of otner allegorical 
beings, among whom are the four seasons, 
Rural Joy, Plenty, Hospitality, and Courage. 

" Benevolence, with mild benignant air, 
A female form, came from the tow'rs of Stair : 
Learning and Worth in equal measures trode, 
From simple Catrine, their long-loved abode: 
Last, white-robed Peace, crown'd with a hazel 

wreath, 
To rustic Agriculture did bequeath 
The broken iron instrument of Death ; 
At sight of whom our Sprites forgat their kin- 
dling wrath." 

This poem, irregular and imperfect as it is, 
displays various and powerful talents, and may 
serve to illustrate the genius of Burns. In 

E articular, it affords a striking instance of his 
eing carried beyond his original purpose by 
the powers of imagination. 

In Fergusson's poem, the Plainstones and 
Causeway contrast the characters of the dif- 
ferent persons who walked upon them. Burns 
probably conceived, that, by a dialogue be- 
tween the Old and New Bridge, he might 
form a humorous contrast between ancient and 
modern manners in the town of Ayr. Such a 
dialogue could only be supposed to pass in the 
stillness of night ; and this led our poet into a 
description of a midnight scene, which excited 
in. a high degree the powers of his imagination. 
During the whole dialogue the scenery is pie- 



sent to his fancy, and at length it suggests to 
him a fairy dance of aeiial beings, under thd 
beams of the moon, by which the wrath of the 
Genii of the Brigs of Ayr is appeased. 

Incongruous as the different parts of this 
poem are, it is not an incongruity that dis- 
pleases ; and we have only to regret that the 
poet did not bestow a little pains in making 
the figures more correct, and in smoothing the 
versification. 

The epistles of Burns, in which may be in- 
cluded his Dedication to G. II. Esq. discover, 
like his other writings, the powers of a supe- 
rior understanding. They display deep insight 
into human nature, a gay and happy strain of 
reflection, great independence of sentiment, 
and generosity of heart. It is to be regretted, 
that in his Holy Fair, and in some of his other 
poems, his humour degenerates into personal 
satire, and is not sufficiently guarded in other 
respects. The Halloween of Burns is free 
"rohi every objection of this sort. It is inter- 
esting not merely from its humorous descrip- 
tion of manners, but as it records the spells 
and charms used on the celebration of a festi- 
val, now, even in Scotland, falling into neglect, 
but which was once observed over the greater 
part of Britain and Ireland.* These charms 
are supposed to afford an insight into futurity, 
especially on the subject of marriage, the most 
interesting event of rural life. In the Hal- 
loween, a female, in performing one of the 
pells, has occasion to go out by moonlight to 
dip her shift-sleeve into a stream running to- 
wards the Soulh.f It was not necessary for 
Burns to give a description of this stream. 
But it was the character of his ardent mind to 
pour forth not merely what the occasion re- 
quired, but what it admitted ; and the tempta- 
tion to describe so beautiful a natural object 
by moonlight, was not to be resisted — 

" Whyles owre a linn the burnie plays, 
As through the glen it wimpl't; 
Whyles round the rocky scar it strays: 

\Vhyles in a wiel it dimpl't ; 
Whyles glitter'd to the nightly rays, 

Wi 1 bickering dancing dazzle ; 

Whyles cookit underneath the braes, 

Beneath the spreading hazel, 

Unseen that night. 

Those who understand the Scottish dialect 
will allow this to be one of the finest instan- 
ces of description which the records of poetry 

afford Though of a very different nature, it 

may be compared, in point of excellence, with 
Thomson's description of a river swollen by 
the rains of winter, bursting through the 
streights that confine its torrent, " boiling, 
wheeling, foaming, and thundering along."} 

In pastoral, or, to speak more correctly, in 
rural poetry of a serious natural, Burns ex- 



t In Ireland it is still celebrated. It is not quit 
use in Wale?. 
+ See ptiffC 115. t See Tluimsnii's U inter. 



IXXXV1II 



.LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 



celled equally as in that of a humorous kind, 
and, using less of the Scottish dialect in his 
serious poems, he becomes more generally in- 
telligible. It is difficult to decide whether the 
Address to a Mouse whose nest was turned up 
with the plough* should be considered as seri- 
ous or comic. Be this as it may, the poem is 
one of the happiest and most finished of his 
productions. If we smile at the " bickering 
brattle" of this little flying animal, it is a smile 
of tenderness and pity. The descriptive part 
is admirable : the moral reflections beautiful, 
and arising directly out of the occasion ; and 
in the conclusion there is a deep melancholy, 
a sentiment of doubt and dread, that arises to 
the sublime. The Address to a Mountain 
Daisy, turned down with the plough. f is a poem 
of the same nature, though somewhat inferior 
in point of originality, as well as in the interest 
produced. To extract out of incidents so 
common, and seemingly so trivial as these, so 
fine a train of sentiment and imagery, is the 
surest proof, as well as the most brilliant 
triumph, of original genius. The Vision, in 
two cantos, from which a beautiful extract is 
taken by Mr Mackenzie, in the 97th number 
of the Lounger, is a poem of great and various 
excellence. The opening, in which the poet 
describes his own state of mind, retiring in the 
evening, wearied, from the labours of the day, 
to moralize on his conduct and prospects, is 
truly interesting. The chamber, if we may 
so term it, in which he sits down to muse, is 
an exquisite painting: 

" There, lanely, by the ingle cheek, 
1 sat and eyed the spewing reek, 
That fill'd wi* huast-provoking smeek 

That auld clay biggin ; 
An' heard the restless rattons squeak 
About the riggin." 

To reconcile to our imagination the entrance 
of an aerial being into a mansion of this kind, 
required the powers of Burns — he, however, 
succeeds. Coila enters, and her countenance, 
attitude, and dress, unlike those of other spiri- 
tual beings, are distinctly portrayed. To 
the painting on her mantle, on which is de- 
picted the most striking scenery, as well as the 
most distinguished character^ of his native 
country, some exceptions may be made. The 
mantle of Coila, like the cup of Thyrsis,| and 
the shield of Achilles, is too much crowded 
with figures, and some of the objects repre- 
rented upon it are scarcely admissible, accord- 
ing to the principles of design. The generous 
temperament of Burns led him into these 
exuberances. In his second edition he en- 
larged the number of figures originally intro- 
duced, that he might include objects to which 
lie was attached by sentiments of affection, 
gratitude, or patriotism. The second Duan, 



or canto of this poem, in wnich Coila describes 
her own nature and occupations, particularly 
her superintendance of his infant genius, and 
in which she reconciles him to the character 
of a bard, is an elevated and solemn strain, of 
poetry, ranking in all respects, excepting the 
harmony of numbers, with the higher produc- 
tions of the English muse. The concluding 
stanza, compared with that already quoted, 
will show to what a height Burns rises in this 
poem, from the point at which he set out : — 

" And wear thou this — she solemn said, 
And bound the holly round my head ; 
The polish'd leaves, and berries red, 

Did rustling play; 
And, like a passing thought, she fled 

In light away." 

In various poems Burns has exhibited the 
picture of a mind under the deep impressions 
of real sorrow. The Lament, the Ode to Ruin, 
Despondency, and Winter, a Dirge, are of this 
character. In the first of these poems the 
eighth stanza, which describes a sleepless night 
from anguish of mind, is particularly striking. 
Burns often indulged in those melancholy 
views of the nature and condition of man, 
which are so congenial to the temperament of 
sensibility. The poem entitled Man was made 
to Mourn, affords an instance of this kind, and 
The Winter Night* is of the same description. 
The last is highly characteristic, both of the 
temper of mind, and of the condition of Burns. 
It begins with a description of a dreadful storm 
on a night in winter. The poet represents 
himself as lying in bed, and listening to its 
howling. In this situation, he naturally turns 
his thoughts to the ourief Cattle, and the silly\ 
Sheep, exposed to all the violence of the tem- 
pest. Having lamented their fate, he proceeds 
in the following : 

" Ilk happing bird — wee helpless thing ! 
That in the merry months o' spring, 
Delighted me to hear thee sing, 

What comes o' thee ? 
Whare wilt thou cow'r thy chittering wing, 

An' close thy e'e ?" 

Other reflections of the same nature occur 
to his mind ; and as the midnight moon, 
" muffled with clouds," casts her dreary light 
on his window, thoughts of a darker and more 
melancholy nature crowd upon him. In this 
state of mind, he hears a voice pouring through 
the gloom, a solemn and plaintive strain of re- 
flection. The mourner compares the fury of 
the elements with that of man to his brothel 
man, and finds the former light in the balance. 



* See p. 117. 
t Ourie, out-tying. Ourie Cattle, Cattle that are un- 
housed all winter. 
% Silly is in this, as in other places, a term of compaa. 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 



xxxix 



* See stern Oppression's iron grip, 
Or mad Ambition's gory hand, 

Sending, like blood-hounds from the slip, 
Woe, want, and murder, o'er the land." 



roues this train of reflection through a 
variety of particulars, in the course of which 
he introduces the following animated apo- 
strophe : 

O ye ! who sunk in beds of down, 

Feel not a want but what yourselves create, 

Think, for a moment, on his wretched fate, 

Whom friends and fortune quite disown ! 
Ill-satisfy'd keen Nature's clam'rous call, 

Stretch 'd on his straw he lays him down to sleep, 
While thro' (he ragged roof and chinky wall, 

Chill o'er his slumbers piles the drifty heap." 

The strain of sentiment which runs through 
this poem is noble, though the execution is un- 
equal, and the versification is defective. 

Among the serious poems of Burns, Tlie 
Cotter's Saturday Night is perhaps entitled to 
the first rank. The Farmer's Ingle of Fergus- 
eon evidently suggested the plan of this poem, 
as has been already mentioned ; but after the 
plan was formed, Burns trusted entirely to his 
own powers for the execution. Fergusson's 
poem is certainly very beautiful. It has all 
the charms which depend on rural characters 
and manners happily portrayed, and exhibited 
under circumstances highly grateful to the im- 
agination. The Farmer's Ingle hegins with 
describing the return of evening. The toils of 
the day are over, and the farmer retires to his 
comfortable fire-side. The reception which he 
and his men-servants receive from the careful 
house-wife, is pleasingly described. After 
their supper is over, they begin to talk on the 
miral events of the day. 

4< 'Bout kirk and market eke their tales gae on, 
How Jock woo'd Jenny here to be his bride ; 

And there how Clarion for a bastard son, 
Upon the cutty-stool was forced to ride, 

The waefu' scauid o' our Mess John to bide. 

The " Guidame" is next introduced as forming 
a circle round the fire, in the midst of her 
grand-children, and while she spins from the 
rock, and the spindle plays on her " russet lap," 
•she is relating to the young ones tales of 
witches and ghosts. The poet exclaims, 

" O mock nathis rny friends ! but.rather mourn, 
Ye in life's brawest spring wi' reason clear, 
Wi' eild our idle fancies a' return, 

And dim our dolefu' days wi' bairnly fear; 
The mind's aye crarf/'cZ when the grave is near." 

In the meantime the farmer, wearied with 
the fatigues of the day, stretches himself at 
slength on the settle, a sort of rustic couch, which 
■extends on one side of the fire, and the cat and 
house-dog leap upon it to receive his caresses. 
Here, resting at his ease, he gives his directions 
te his men-servants for the succeeding day. 



The house-wife follows his example, and gives 
her orders to the maidens. By degrees the oil 
in the cruise begins to fail ; the fire runs low ; 
sleep steals on his rustic group ; and they move 
off to enjoy their peaceful slumbers. The poet 
concludes by bestowing his blessing on the 
" husbandman and all his tribe." 

This is an original and truly interesting 
pastoral. It possesses every thing required in 
this species of composition. We might have 
perhaps said, every thing that it admits, had 
not Burns written his Cutler's Saturday Night. 

The cottager returning from his labours, has 
no servants to accompany him, to partake of 
his fare, or to receive his instructions. The 
circle which he joins, is composed of his wife 
and children only ; and if it admits of less 
variety, it affords an opportunity for represent- 
ing scenes that more strongly interest the 
affections. The younger children running to 
meet him, and clambering round his knee ; the 
elder, returning from their weekly labours with 
the neighbouring farmers, dutifully depositing 
their little gains with their parents, and receiv- 
ing their father's blessing and instructions ; the 
incidents of the courtship of Jenny, their eldest 
daughter, " woman grown," are circumstances 
of the most interesting kind, which are most 
happily delineated ; and after their frugal sup- 
per, the representation of these humbler cottag- 
ers forming a wider circle round their hearth 
and uniting in the worship of God, is a picture 
the most deeply affecting of any which the rural 
muse has ever presented to the view. Burns 
was admirably adapted to this delineation. 
Like all men of genius he was of the tempera- 
ment of devotion, and the powers- of memory 
co-operated in this instance with the sensibility 
of his heart, and the fervour of his imagination.* 
The Cotter's Saturday Night is tender and 
moral, it is solemn and devotional, and rises at 
length in a strain of grandeur and sublimity, 
which modern poetry has not surpassed. The 
noble sentiments of patriotism with which it 
concludes, correspond with the rest of the 
poem. In no age or country have the pastoral 
muses breathed such elevated accents, if the 
Messiah of Pope be excepted, which is indeed 
a pastoral in form only. It is to be regretted 
that Burns did not employ his genius on other 
subjects of the same nature, which the manners 
and customs of the Scottish peasantry would 
have amply supplied. Such poetry is not to 
be estimated by the degree of pleasure which 
it bestows ; it sinks deeply into the heart, and 
is calculated, far beyond any other human 
means, for giving permanence to the scenes 
and the characters it so exquisitely describes.t 



• The reader will recollect that the Cotter was Burns's 
father. See p. xxxix. 

f A great number of manuscript poems were found 
among the papers of Burns, addressed to him by admir- 
ers of his genius, from different parts of Britain, as well 
as from Ireland and America. Among these was a poe- 
tical epistle from Mr Telford, of Shrewsbury, of superior 
merit. It was written in the dialect of Scotland (of 
which, country Mr Telford is a native.) and in the ve r 



xc 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURiNS. 



Before we conclude, it will be proper to of- 
fer a few observations on the lyric productions 
of Burns. His compositions of this kind are 
chiefly songs, generally in the Scottish dialect, 



sification generally employed by our poet himself. Its 
•toject is to recommend to him other subjects of a serious 
nature similar to that of the Cotter's Saturday Night; 
and the reader will find that the advice is happily en. 
forced by example. It would have given the editor 

Eleasure to have inserted the whole of this poem, which 
e hopes will one day see the light ; he is happy to have 
obtained, in the meau time, his friend Mr Telford's per- 
mission to insert the following extracts: 



Pursue, O Burns, thy happy style, 

" Those manner-painting strains," that while 

They bear me northward many a mile, 

Recall the days, 
When tender joys, with pleasing smile, 

Blest my young ways. 

I see my fond companions rise, 

I join the happy village joys, 

1 see our green hills Uiurh the skies, 

And thro' the woods, 
I hear the river's rushing noise, 

Its roaring floods.* 

vith warmer glow, 



ount+ 1 go, 

6ougs of thine. 



Wit 

O happy Bard '. thy gen'rous flame, 
Was given t<> r;ii-e' thy country's fame, 
For this thy charming numbers came, 

Thy matchless lays ; 
Then sing and save her virtuous name, 

To latest days. 



But mony a theme awaits thy muse, 
Fine as thy Cutter's sacred views, 
Then in such ver=.e thv soul infuse, 

With holy air, 
And sing the course the pious choose, 

With all thy care. 

How with religious awe imprest. 
They open lay the guiltless breast, 
And youth and age with fears distrest, 

All due prepare, 
The symbols of eternal n ' 



Devoi 






How down ilk lang withdrawing ML, 
Successive crowds the valleys fill. 
While pure religious converse still 

Beguiles the way, 
And gives a cast to youthful will. 

To suit the day. 

How placed along the sacred board, 

Their hoary pastor's looks adored. 

His voice with peace and blessing stored, 

Sent from above; 
And faith, and hope, and joy afford, 

And boundless lore. 

O'er this, with warm seraphic glow, 
Celestial beings, pleased, bow, 
And, whispered, hear the holy vow, 

'Mid grateful tears; 
And mark amid such scenes below, 

Their future peers. 

•he banks of the Bsk in Dumfries-shire, are here allud 



and always after the model of the Scottish 
songs, on the general character and moral in- 
fluence of which, some observations have al- 
ready been offered. We may hazard a few 
more particular remarks. 



O mark the awful solemn scene !* 
When hoary winter clothes. the plain, 
Along the snowy hills is seen 

A pproaching slow, 
In mourning weeds, the village train, 

In silent woe. 

Some much-respected brother's bier, 
(By turns in pious task they share) 
With heavy hearts they forward bear 

Along the path ; 
Where nei'bours saw, in dusky air.f 

The light of death. 

And when they pass the rocky howe, 
Where binwood bushes o'er them flow, 
And move around the rising knowe, 

Where far away 
The kirkyard trees are seen to grow, 

By th' water brae. 

Assembled round the narrow grave, 
While o'er them wintry tempests rave, 
In the cold wind their grey locks wave, 



Expressive looks from each declare 
The griefs within, their bosoms bear, 
Oue holy bow devout they share, 

Then home return. 
And think o'er all the virtues fair, 

Of him they mourn. 



Say how by early lessons taught, 
(Truth's pleasing air is willing caught) 
Congenial to th' untainted thought, 

The shepherd boy, 
Who tends hisflocks on lonely height. 

Feels holy joy. 

Is aught on earth so lovely known. 
On Sabbath morn, and far alone, 
His guileless soul all naked shown 

Before his God — 
Such pray'rs must welcome reach the throne, 

And blest abode. 

O tell ! with what a heartfelt joy, 
The parent eyes the virtuous boy ; 
And all his constant, kind employ 

Is how to give 
The best of lear he can enjoy. 

As means to lire. 

The parish-school, its curious site, 
The master who can clear indite, 
And lead him on to count and write, 
Demand thy care ; 
Nor pass the ploughman's school at night 



>U& Wi 



ithout a share. 

Nor yet the tenty curiou3 lad, 
Who o'er the ingle hings his head, 
And begs o' nei'bours books to read ; 



Baith bauld and w 



• A Scottish funeral. 

t This alludes to a superstition prevalent in Eskdale, and A 
: - ""! night every funeral, maiki 



e precise path it » to pass. 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 



xa 



Of the historic or heroic ballads of Scot- 
land it is unnecessary to speak. Burns has no 
where imitated them, a circumstance to be re- 
gretted, since in this species of composition, 
from its admitting the more terrible, as well as 
the softer graces of poetry, he was eminently 
qualified to have excelled. The Scottish songs 
which served as a model to Burns, are almost 
without exception pastoral, or rather rural. 
Such of them as are comic, frequently treat of 
a rustic courtship, or a country wedding ; or 
they describe the differences of opinion which 
arise in married life. Burns has imitated this 
species, and surpassed his models. The song 
beginning, " Husband, husband, cease your 
strife," may be cited in support of this obser- 
vation. * His other comic songs are of equal 
merit. In the rural songs of Scotland, whe- 
ther humorous or tender, the sentiments are 
given to particular characters, and very gener- 



The bonny lasses as they spin, 

Perhaps wi" Allan's sangs begin, 

How Tay and Tweed smooth flowing rin 

Thro' flowery hows ; 
Where Shepherd-lads their sweethearts n 

With earnest vows. 

Or may be. Burns, thy thrilling page 
May a' their virtuous thoughts engage, 
While playful youth and placid age 

In concert join, 
To bless the bard, who, gay or sage, 

Improves the mind. 



Long may their harmless, simple ways, 
Nature's own pure emotions raise : 
May still the dear romantic blaze 

Of purest love, 
Their bosoms warm to latest days, 

And aye improve. 

May still each fond attachment glow, 

O'er woods, o'er streams, o'er hills of snow : 

May rugged rocks still dearer grow, 

And may their souls 
Even love the warlock glens which through 

The tempest howls. 

To eternize such themes as these, 
And all their happy manners seize, 
Will every virtuous bosom please, 

And high in tame 
To future times will justly raise 

Thy patriot name, 

While all the venal tribes decay, 
That bask in flattery's flaunting ray, 
The noisome vermin of a day, 

Thy works shall gain 
O'er every mind a boundless sway, 

And lasting reign. 

When winter binds the harden'd plains, 
Around each hearth, the hoary swains 
Shall teach the rising youth thy strains, 

Our blessing with our sons remains) 
And Burns'sLav! 
* The dialogues between husbands and their wives 
which form the subjects of the Scottish songs, are almost 
all ludicrous and satirical, and in these contests the lady 
ilgenerally victorious. From the collections of Mr Pin- 
kerton, we find that the comic muse of Scotland delight- 
ed In such repesentalions from very early times, in her 
rudft dramatic efforts, as well aa in her rustic 6ongs. 



ally, the incidents are referred to particular 
scenery. This last circumstance may be con- 
sidered as a distinguishing feature of the Scot, 
tish songs, and on it a considerable part of their 
attraction depends. On all occasions the sen- 
timents, of whatever nature, are delivered in- 
the character of the person principally interest- 
ed. If love be described, it is not as it is ob- 
served, but as it is felt ; and the passion is de- 
lineated under a particular aspect. Neither is- 
it the fiercer impulses of desire that are express- 
ed, as in the celebrated ode of Sappho, the 
model of so many modern songs ; but those 
gentler emotions of tenderness and affection, 
which do not entirely absorb the lover; but 
permit him to associate his emotions with the 
charms of external nature, and breathe the ac- 
cents of purity and innocence, as well as of 
love. In these respects the love-songs of 
Scotland are honourably distinguished from the 
most admired classical compositions of the same 
kind ; and by such associations, a variety as 
well as liveliness, is given to the representation 
of this passion, which are not to be found in 
the poetry of Greece or Rome, or perhaps of 
any other nation. Many of the love-songs of 
Scotland describe scenes of rural courtship ;; 
many may be considered as invocations from 
lovers to their mistresses. On such occasions- 
a degree of interest and reality is given to the 
sentiment, by the spot destined to these happy 
interviews being particularized. The lovers 
perhaps meet at the Bush aboon Traquair, or 
on the Banks of Ettrich ; the nymphs are in- 
voked to wander among the wilds of Roslin or 
the woods of Invermay. Nor is the spot mere- 
ly pointed out ; the scenery is often described 
as well as the character, so as to represent a 
complete picture to the fancy* Thus the 



* One or two examples may illustrate this observation. 
A Scottish song, written about a hundred years ago, 
begins thus :— 

" On Ettrick banks, on a summer's night 
At gloaming, when the sheep drove hame, 

I met my lassie, braw and tight, 
Come wading barefoot a' her lane. 

My heart grew light, I ran, i fiang 

My arms about her lily.neck, 
And kissed and clasped there fu' lang— 

My words they were na mony feck." 

The lover, who is a Highlander, goes on to relate the 
language he employed with his Lowland maid to win 
her heart, and to persuade her to fly with him to the- 
Highland hills, there to share his fortune. The senti- 
ments are in themselves beautiful. But we feel them 
with double force, while we conceive that they were 
addressed by a lover to his mistress, whom he met all 
alone on a summer's evening, by the banks of a beau, 
tiful stream, which some of us have actually seen, and 
which all of us can paint to our imagination. Let u» 
take another example. It is now a nymph, that speaks. 
Hear how she expresses herself— 

*« How blythe each morn was I to sea 

My swain come o'er the hill ! 
He skipt the burn, and flew to me, 

I met him with good will." 

Here is another picture drawn by the pencil of Na- 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 



maxim of Horace, utpictura poesis, is faithfully 
observed by these rustic bards, who are guided 
■by the same impulse of nature and sensibility 
which influenced the father of epic poetry, on 
whose example the precept of the Roman poet 
was perhaps founded. By this means the ima- 
gination is employed to interest the feelings. 
When we do not conceive distinctly, we do 
not sympathize deeply in any human affection ; 
and we conceive nothing in the abstract. Ab- 
straction, so useful in morals and so essential 
in science, must be abandoned when the heart 
is to be subdued by the powers of poetry or of 
eloquence. The bards of a ruder condition of 
society paint individual objects ; and hence, 
among other causes, the easy access they ob- 
tain to the heart. Generalization is the vice 
of poets, whose learning overpowers their ge- 
nius ; of poets of a refined and scientific age. 

The dramatic style which prevails so much 
in the Scottish songs, while it contributes greatly 
to the interest they excite, also shows that they 
have originated among a people in the earlier 
stages of society. Where this* form of compo- 
sition appears in songs of a modern date, it in- 
dicates that they have been written after the 
ancient model.* 

ture. We see a shepherdess stnnding by the side of a 
brook, watching her lover as he descends the opposite 
hill. He bounds lightly along; he approaches nearer 
and nearer ; he leaps the brock, and flies into her arms. 
In the recollection of these circumstances, the surround- 
ing scenery becomes endeared to the fair mourner, and 
ehe bursts into the following exclamation. 

" O the broom, the bonnie bonnie broom, 

The broom of the Coivden-knowesI 
I wish I were with my dear swain, 
With his pipe and his ewes." 

Thus the individual spot of this happy interview is 
pointed out, and the picture is completed. 

* That the dramatic form of writing characterizes 
productions of an early, or what amounts to the same, 
of a rude stage of society, may be illustrated by a re- 
ference to the most ancient compositions that we 
know of, the Hebrew scriptures, and the writings 
of Homer. The lorm of dialogue is adopted in the old 
Scottish ballads even in narration, whenever the situa- 
tions described become interesting. This sometimes 
produces a very striking effect, of which an instance 
may be given from the ballad of Edom o' Gordon, a 
composition apparently of the sixteenth century. The 
story of the ballad is shortly this :— The Castle of Rhodes 
in the absence of its lord is attacked by the robber Edom 
Gordon. The lady; stands on her defence, beats off 
the assailants, and wounds Gordon, who in his rase 
orders the castle to be set on fire. That his orders are 
carried into effect, we learn from the expostulation of 
the lady, who is represented as standing on the battle- 
ments and remonstrating on this barbarity. She is in. 
terrupted — 

"O then bespake her little son, 

Sate on his nourice knee; 
Says * mither dear, gi' owre this house, 

For the reek it smithers me.' 
" I wad gie a' my gowd, my ehilde, 

Sae wad I a' my fee, 
For ae blast o' the westlin wind, 

To blaw the reek frae thee." 

The circumstantiality of the Scottish love-songs, and 
the dramatic form which prevails so generally in them, 
probably arises from their being the descendants and 
successors of the ancient ballads. In the beautiful mo- 
dem song of Mary of Castle. Cart/, the dramatic form 
has a very happy effect. The same may be said of Do. 
n ald and Flora, and Come under my plaidie, by the 
.atne author, Mr Macnie/ 



The Scottish songs are of very unequal poe- 
tical merit, and this inequality often extends 
to the different parts of the same song. Those 
that are humorous, or characteristic of man- 
ners, have in general the merit of copying na- 
ture ; those that are serious are tender and of- 
ten sweetly interesting, but seldom exhibit high 
powers of imagination, which indeed do not 
easily find a place in this species of composition. 
The alliance of the words of the Scottish songs 
with the music has in some instances given to 
the former a popularity, which otherwise they 
would never have obtained. 

The association of the words and the music 
of these songs with the more beautiful parts of 
the scenery of Scotland, contributes to the same 
effect. It has given them not merely popularity, 
but permanence ; it has imparted to the works 
of man some portion of the durability of the 
works of nature. If, from our imperfect ex- 
perience of the past, we may judge with any 
confidence respecting the future, songs of this 
description are of all others the least likely 
to die. In the changes of language they may 
no doubt suffer change ; but the associated 
strain of sentiment and of music will perhaps 
survive, while the clear stream sweeps down 
the vale of Yarrow, or the yellow broom wavei 
on the Cowden-Knowes. 

The first attempts of Burns in song-writing 
were not very successful. His habitual inat- 
tention to the exactness of rhymes, and to the 
harmony of numbers, arising probably from 
the models on which his versification was 
formed, were faults likely to appear to more 
advantage in this species of composition, than 
in any other ; and we may also remark, that 
the strength of his imagination, and the exu- 
berance of his sensibility, were with difficulty 
restrained within the limits of gentleness, deli- 
cacy and tenderness, which seem to be assign- 
ed to the love-songs of his nation. Burns was 
better adapted by nature for following in such 
compositions the model of the Grecian than 
of the Scottish muse. By study and practice 
he however surmounted all these obstacles. 
In his earlier songs there is some ruggedness ; 
but this gradually disappears in his successive 
efforts ; and some of his later compositions 
of this kind may be compared, in polished de- 
licacy, with the finest songs in our language, 
while in the eloquence of sensibility they sur- 
pass them all. 

The songs of Burns, like the models he 
followed and excelled, are often dramatic, and 
for the greater part amatory : and the beauties 
of rural nature are every where associated with 
the passions and emotions of the mind. Dis- 
daining to copy the works of others, he has 
not, like some poets of great name, admitted 
into his descriptions exotic imagery. The 
landscapes he has painted, and the objects with 
which they are embellished, are, in every 
single instance, such as are to be found in 
his own country. In a mountainous region, 
especially when it is ccmparatively rude and 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 



naked, the most beautiful scenery will always 
be found in the valleys, and on the banks of 
the wooded streams. Such scenery is peculiar- 
ly interesting at the close of a summer day. 
As we advance northwards, the number of 
the days of summer, indeed, diminishes ; but 
from this cause, as well as from the mildness 
of the temperature, the attraction increases, and 
the summer night becomes still more beautiful. 
The greater obliquity of the sun's path in 
the ecliptic, prolongs the grateful season of 
twilight to the midnight hours, and the shades 
of the evening seem to mingle with the morn- 
ing's dawn. The rural poets of Scotland, as 
may be expected, associate in their songs the 
expression of passion, with the most beautiful 
of their scenery, in the fairest season of the 
year, and generally in those hours of the even- 
ing when the beauties of nature are most in- 
teresting.* 

To all these adventitious circumstances, on 
which so much of the effect of poetry depends, 
great attention is paid by Burns. There is 
scarcely a single song of his in which particu- 
lar scenery is not described, or allusions made 
to natural objects, remarkable for beauty or in- 
terest ; and though his descriptions are not so 
full as are sometimes met with in the older 
Scottish songs, they are in the highest de- 
gree appropriate and interesting. Instances 
in proof of this might be quoted from the Lea 
Rig, Highland Alary, the Soldier's Return, 
Logan Water, from that beautiful pastoral, 
Bonnie Jean, and a great number of others. 
Occasionally the force of his genius carries him 
beyond the usual boundaries of Scottish song, 
and the natural objects introduced have more of 
the character of sublimity. An instance of 
this kind is noticed by Mr Syme, f and many 
others might be adduced. 

" Had I a cave on some wild, distant shore, 
Where the winds howl to the wave's dashing roar ; 
There would I weep my woes, 



ss pastoral 
alk in thu 



* A lady, of whoso genius the editor entertains high 
admiration (Mrs Barbauld), has fallen into an error in 
thi> respect lu her prelatory address to the works of 
Collins," speaking of the natural objects that may be 
employed to give interest to the descriptions of passion, 
Bhe observes, " they present an inexhaustible variety, 
from the Song ol Solomon, breathing of cassia, myrrh, 
and cinnamon, to the Geotle Shepherd of Ramsay, 
whose dam-els carry their milking-pails through the 

frosts and snows of their less genial, but not less 

country." The damsels of Ramsay do not wal 
midst of frost and snow.— Almost all the scenes of the 
Gentle Shepherd are laid in the open air, amidst beau- 
tiful natural objects, and at the most genial season of 
the year. Ramsay introduces all his acts with a pre- 
fatory description to as-ure us of this. The fault of the 
climate of Britain is not, that it does not afford us the 
beauties of summer, but that the season of such beauties 
is comparatively short, and even uncertain. There are 
days and nights even in the northern division of the 
island, which equal, or perhaps, surpass what are to be 
found in the latitude of Sicily or of Greece. Buchanan, 
when he wrote his exquisite Ode to May, felt the charm 
as well as the transientuess of these happy days : 

Salve fugacis gloria seculi, 

Salve secunda digca dies nota, 
Salve vetustae virse imago, 
Et specimen veuientis Mvi ! 
+ See page lxvi. 



There seek my lost repose, 
Till grief my "eyes should close 
NcVr to wake more. " 

In one song, the scene of which is laid in 
a winter night, the " wan moon '* is described 
as " setting behind the white waves **; in an- 
other, the "storms ''are apostrophized, and com- 
manded to "rest in the cave of their slumbers. •' 
On several occasions, the genius of Burns loses 
sight entirely of his archetypes, and rises into 
a strain of uniform sublimity. Instances of 
this kind appear in Libert;/, a Vision, and in 
his two war-songs, Bruce to his troops, and 
the Song of Death. These last are of a de- 
scription of which we have no other in our 
language. The martial songs of our nation 
are not military, but naval. If we were to seek 
a comparison of these songs of Burns with, 
others of a similar nature, we must have re- 
course to the poetry of ancient Greece, or of 
modern Gaul. 

Burns has made an important addition to the 
songs of Scotland. In his compositions, the 
poetry equals and sometimes surpasses the 
music. He has enlarged the poetical scenery 
of his country. Many of her rivers and moun- 
tains, formerly unknown to the muse, are now 
consecrated by his immortal verse. The Doon, 
the Lugar, the Ayr, the Nith, and the Cluden, 
will in future, like the Yarrow, the Tweed, and 
the Tay, be considered as classic streams, and 
their borders will be trode with new and superi- 
or emotions. 

The greater part of the songs of Burns were 
written after he removed into the county of 
Dumfries. Influenced, perhaps, by habit* 
formed in early life, he usually composed while 
walking in the open air. When engaged in 
writing these songs, his favourite walks were 
on the banks of the Nith, or of the Cluden, 
particularly near the ruins of Lincluden Ab- 
bey ; and this beautiful scenery he has very 
happily described under various aspects, as it 
appears during the softness and serenity of 
evening, and during the stillness and solemnity 
of the moon-light night 

There is no species of poetry, the produc- 
tions of the drama not excepted, so much cal- 
culated to influence the morals, as well as the 
happiness of a people, as those popular verses 
which are associated with the national airs, 
and which being learnt in the years of infancy, 
make a deep impression on the heart before 
the evolution of the powers of the understand- 
ing. The compositions of Burns, of this 
kind, now presented in a collected form to the 
world, make a most important addition to the 
popular songs of his nation. Like all his 
other writings, they exhibit independence oi 
sentiment ; they are peculiarly calculated to 
increase those ties which bind generous hearts 
to their native soil, and to the domestic circle 
ot their infancy: and to cherish those sensibi. 
lities which, under due restriction, form the 
purest happiness of our nature. If in his 
unguarded moments he composed some 6ongf 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 



t>n which this praise cannot be bestowed, let 
us hope that they will speedily be forgotten. 
In several instances, where Scottish airs were 
allied to words objectionable in point of deli- 
cacy, Burns has substituted others of a purer 
character. On such occasions, without chang- 
ing the subject, he has changed the sentiments. 
A proof of this may be seen in the air of John 
Anderson my Joe, which is now united to 
words that breathe a strain of conjugal tender- 
ness, that is as highly moral as it is exquisitely 
affecting. 

Few circumstances could afford a more 
striking proof of the strength of Burns's genius, 
than the general circulation of his poems in 
England, notwithstanding the dialect in which 
the greater part are written, and which might 
be supposed to render them here uncouth or 
obscure. In some instances he has used this 
dialect on subjects of a sublime nature ; but in 
general be confines it to sentiments or descrip- 
tion of a tender or humorous kind ; and, where 
he rises into elevation of thought, he assumes 
a purer English style. The singular faculty 
he possessed of mingling in the same poem 
humorous sentiments and descriptions, with 
imagery of a sublime and terrific nature, ena- 
bled him to use this variety of dialect on some 
occasions with striking effect. His poem of 
Tarn o' Shanter affords an instance of this. 
There he passes from a scene of the lowest 
humour, to situations of the most awful and 
terrible kind. He is a musician that runs 
from the lowest to the highest of his keys ; 
and the use of the Scottish dialect enables 
him to add two additional notes to the bottom 
of his scale. 

Great efforts have been made by the inha- 
bitants of Scotland, of the superior ranks, to 
approximate in their speech to the pure Eng- 
lish standard ; and this has made it difficult to 
write in the Scottish dialect, without exciting 
in them some feelings of disgust, which in 
England are scarcely felt. An Englishman 
who understands the meaning of the Scottish 
words, is not offended, nay, on certain subjects, 
be is perhaps pleased with the rustic dialect, 
as he may be with the Doric Greek of Theo- 
critus. 

But a Scotchman inhabiting his own coun- 
try, if a man of education, and more especially 
if a literary character, has banisned such words 
from his writings, and has attempted to banish 
them from his speech ; and being accustomed 
to hear them from the vulgar daily, does not 
easily admit of their use in poetry, which re- 
quires a style elevated and ornamental. A 
dislike of this kind is, however, accidental, not 
natural. It is of the species of disgust which 
we feel at seeing a female of high birth in the 
dress of a rustic ; which if she be really young 
and beautiful, a little habit will enable us to 
overcome. A lady who assumes such a dress 
puts her beauty, indeed, to a severer trial. 
She rejects — she, indeed, opposes the influence 
of fashion : she. possiblv, abandons the grace 



of elegant and flowing drapery ; but her native 
charms remain, the more striking, perhaps, 
because the less adorned; and to these she 
trusts for fixing her empire on those affections 
over which fashion has no sway. If she suc- 
ceeds, a new association arises. The dress of 
the beautiful rustic becomes itself beautiful, 
and establishes a new fashion for the young 
and the gay. And when, in after ages, the 
contemplative observer shall view her picture 
in the gallery that contains the portraits of the 
beauties of successive centuries, each in the 
dress of her respective day, her drapery will 
not deviate, more than that of her rivals, from 
the standard of his taste, and he will give the 
palm to her who excels in the lineaments of 
nature. 

Burns wrote professedly for the peasantry 
of his country, and by them their native dialect 
is universally relished. To a numerous class 
of the natives of Scotland of another descrip- 
tion, it may also be considered as attractive in 
a different point of view. Estranged from 
their native soil, and spread over foreign lands, 
the idiom of their country unites with the 
sentiments and the descriptions on which it is 
employed, to recall to their minds the interest- 
ing scenes of infancy and youth — to awaken 
many pleasing, many tender recollections. 
Literary men, residing at Edinburgh or Aber- 
deen, cannot judge on this point for one hun- 
dred and fifty thousand of their expatriated 
countrymen.* 

To the use of the Scottish dialect in one 
species of poetry, the composition of songs, 
the taste of the public has been for some time 
reconciled. The dialect in question excels, as 
has already been observed, in the copiousness 
and exactness of its terms for natural objects; 
and in pastoral or rural songs, it gives a Doric 
simplicity, which is very generally approved. 
Neither does the regret seem well founded 
which some persons of taste have expressed, 
that Burns used this dialect in so many other 
of his compositions. His declared purpose 
was to paint the manners of rustic life among 
his " humble compeers," and it is not easy to 
conceive, that this could have been done with 
equal humour and effect, if he had not adopted 
their idiom. There are some, indeed, who 
will think the subject too low for poetry. 
Persons of this sickly taste will find their 
delicacies consulted in many a polite and 
learned author ; let them not seek for gratifi- 



These observations are excited by some remarks of 
respectable correspondents of the description alluded to. 
This calculation of the number of Scotchmen living- out 
of Scc-Uand is not altogether arbitrary, and it is probably 
below the truth. It is, in some degree, founded on the 
proportion between the number of the sexes in Scot- 
land, as it appears from the invaluable Statistics of Sir 
John Sinclair. — For Scotchmen of this description more 
particularly, Burns seems to have written his song be- 
ginning. Their groves o' sweet myrtle, a beautiful strain, 
-■hich, it may be confidently predicted, will be suufr 
'ith equal or superior interest, on the banks of the 
Ganges or of the Mississippi, as on those of the Tay on 
the Tweed. 



LIFE OF ROBERT BUR>^ 



xcv 



tation in the rough and vigorous lines, in the 
Unbridled humour, or in the overpowering 
t ensibility of this bard of nature. 

To determine the comparative merit of 
Burns would be no easy task. Many persons 
afterwards distinguished in literature, have 
been born in as humble a situation of life ; but 
it would be difficult to find any other who 
while earning his subsistence by daily labour, 
has written verses which have attracted and 
retained universal attention, and which are 
likely to give the author a permanent and dis- 
tinguished place among the followers of the 
muses. If he is deficient in grace, he is dis- 
tinguished for ease as well as energy ; and these 
are indications of the higher order of genius. 
The father of epic poetry exhibits one of his 
heroes as excelling in strength, another in 
swiftness — to form his perfect warrior, these 
attributes are combined. Every species of 
intellectual superiority admits, perhaps, of a 
similar arrangement. One writer excels in 
force — another in ease ; he is superior to them 
both, in whom both these qualities are united. 
Of Homer himself it may be said, that like 
his own Achilles, he surpasses his competi- 
tors in mobility as well as strength. 



The force of Burns lay in the powers of his 
understanding, and in the sensibility of his 
heart ; and these will be found to infuse the 
living principle into all the works of genius 
which seem destined to immortality. His 
sensibility had an uncommon range. He was 
alive to every species of emotion. He is one 
of the few poets that can be mentioned, who 
have at once excelled in humour, in tenderness, 
and in sublimity ; a praise unknown to the 
ancients, and which in modern times is only 
due to Ariosto, to Shakspeare, and perhaps to 
Voltaire. To compare the writings of the 
Scottish peasant with the works of these giants 
in literature, might appear presumptuous ; yet 
it may be asserted that he has displayed the 
foot of Hercules. How near he might have 
approached them by proper culture, with 
lengthened years, and under happier auspices, 
it is not for us to calculate. But while we 
run over the melancholy story of his life, it is 
impossible not to heave a sigh at the asperity 
of his fortune ; and as we survey the records 
of his mind, it is easy to see, that out of such 
materials have been reared the fairest and the 
most durable of the monuments of genius 



THE DEATH OF BURNS, 



BY MR ROSCOE. 



A great number of poems have been written on the death of Burns, some of them of con- 
siderable poetical merit. To have subjoined all of them to the present edition, would have 
been to have enlarged it to another volume at least; and to have made a selection, 
would have been a task of considerable delicacy. 

The Editor, therefore, presents one poem only on this melancholy subject ; a poem which has 
not before appeared in print. It is from the pen of one who has sympathized deeply in the 
fate of Burns, and will not be found unworthy of its author — the Biographer of Lorenzo de 
Medici. Of a person so well known, it is wholly unnecessary for the Editor to speak; and, 
if it were necessary, it would not be easy for him to find language that would adequately ex 
press his respect and his affection. 



Rear high thy bleak majestic hills, 

Thy sheltered valleys proudly spread, 
And, Scotia, pour thy thousand rills, 

And wave thy heaths with blossoms red • 
But ah ! what poet now shall tread 

Thy airy heights, thy woodland reign, 
Since he, the sweetest bard, i« dead, 

That ever breath'd the soothing strain ! 

As gr< en thy towering pines may grow, 

As clear thy streams may speed along, 
As bright thy summer suns may glow, 

As gaily charm thy feathery throng; 
But now, unheeded is the song, 

And dull and lifeless all around, 
For his wild harp lies all unstrung 

And cold the hand that waked its sound. 

What tho' thy vigorous offspring rise 

1 n arts, in arms, thy sons excel ; 
Tho' beauty in thy daughters' eyes, 

And health in every feature dwell ; 
Yet who shall now their praises tell, 

In strains impassion'd, fond, and free, 
Since he no more the song shall swell 

To love, and liberty, and thee. 

With step-dame eye and frown severe 
His hapless youth why didst thou view? 

For all thy joys to him were dear, 
And all his vows to thee were due ; 



Nor greater bless his bosom knew, 
In opening youth's delightful prime. 

Than when thy favouring ear he drew 
To listen to his chanted rhyme. 

Thy lonely wastes and frowning skies 

To him were all with rapture fraught; 
He heard with joy the tempest rise 

That waked him to sublimer thought ; 
And oft thy winding dells he sought, [fume. 

Where wild flow'rs pour'd their rathe per- 
And with sincere devotion brought 

To thee the summer's earliest bloom. 

But ah ! no fond mfiternal smile 

His unprotected youth enjoy'd, 
His limbs inur'd to early toil, 

His days with early hardships tried ; 
And more to mark the gloomy void, 

And bid him feel his misery, 
Before his infant eyes would glide 

Day-dreams of immortality. 

Yet, not by cold neglect depressed, 

With sinewy arm he turn'd the soil, 
Sunk with the evening sun to rest, 

And met at morn his earliest smile. 
Waked by his rustic pipe, meanwhile 

The powers of fancy came along, 
And sooth'd his lengthened hours of toil, 

With native wit and sprightly sung. 
G 



3ICV111 



OH THE DEATH OF BURNS. 



—Ah ! days, of bliss, too swiftly fled, 

When vigorous health from labour springs 
And bland contentment smooths the bed, 

And sleep his ready opiate brings ; 
And hovering round on airy wings 

Float the light forms of young desire, 
That of unutterable things 

The soft and shadowy hope inspire. 

Now spells of mightier power prepare, 

Bid brighter phantoms round him dance; 
Let Flattery spread hei viewless snare, 

And Fame attract his vagrant glance ; 
Let sprightly Pleasure too advance, 

Unveil'd her eyes, unclasp'd her zone, 
Till, lost in love's delirious trance, 

He scorns the joys his youth has known. 

Let Friendship pour her brightest blaze, 

Expanding all the bloom of soul ; 
And Mirth concentre all her rays, 

And point them from the sparkling bowl ; 
And let the careless moments roll 

In social pleasure unconfined, 
And confidence that spurns control 

Unlock the inmost springs of mind •. 

And lead his steps those bowers among, 



VVhc 



»,.],., 






Or Scien< 

To more refined sensations rise : 
Beyond the peasant's humbler joys, 

And freed from each laborious strife 
There let him learn the bliss to prize 

That waits the sons of polish'd life. 



Then whilst his throbbing veins beat high, 

With every impulse of delight, 
Dash from his lips the cup of joy, 

And shroud the scene in s' ades of night; 
And let Despair, with wizard light, 

Disclose the yawning gulf below, 
And pour incessant on Lis sight 

Her spectre i ills and shapes of woe: 

And show beneath a cheerless shed, 

With sorrowing heart and streaming eyes 
In silent grief There droops her head, 

The partner of his early joys ; 
And let his infants' tender cries 

His fond parental succour claim, 
And bid him hear in agonies 

A husband's and a father's name. 

'Tis done, the powerful charm succeeds ; 

His high reluctant spirit bends ; 
In bitterness of soul he bleeds, 

Nor longer with his fate contends. 
An idiot laugh t 7 e welkin renJs 

As genius thus degraded lies ; 
Till pitying Heaven the veil extends 

That shrouds the Poet's ardent eyes. 

— Rear high thy bleak majestic hills, 
Thy sheltered valleys proudly spread, 

And Scotia, pour thy thousand rills, 

And wave thy heaths with blossoms reel ; 

But never more shall poet tread 
Thy airy height, thy woodland reign, 

Since he, the sweetest bard, is dead, 
| That ever breath'd the soothing strain. 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



ROBERT BURNS. 



LETTERS, Sec 



TO A FEMALE FRIEND. 



I vkrily believe, my dear E. that the pure 
jjenuine feelings of love, are as rare in the 
world as the pure genuine principles of virtue 
and piety. This, I hope, will account for the 
uncommon style of all my letters to you. By 
uncommon, I mean, their being written in such 
a serious maimer, which, to tell you the truth, 
has made me often afraid lest you should take 
me for a zealous bigot, who conversed with his 
IMBtress as he would converse with his minis- 
ter. I don't know how it is, my dear; for 
though, except your company, there is nothing 
on earth that gives me so much pleasure as 
writing to you, yet it never gives me those 
giddy raptures so much talked of among lovers. 
I have often thought, that if a well-grounded af- 
fection be not really a part of virtue, 'tis some- 
thing extremely akin to it. Whenever the 
thought of my E. warms my heart, every feel- 
ing of humanity, every principle of generosity, 
kindles in my breast. It extinguishes every 
dirty spark ot malice and envy, which are but 
too apt to infest me. 1 grasp every creature 
in the ai m> of universal benevolence, and 
equally participate in the pleasures of the 
happy, and sympathise with the miseries of the 
unfortunate. 1 assure you, my dear, I often 
look up to the divine Disposer of events, with 
an eye of gratitude lor the blessing which I 
o bestow on me, in bestow- 
ing you. 1 sincerely wish that he may bless 
ours to make your life as comfort- 
able and happy as possible, both in sweetening 
the rougher parts of my natural temper, and 
bettering the unkindly circumstances of my 
fortune, This, my dear, is a passion, at least 
in my view, worthy of a man, and I will add, 
worth)' of a Christian. The sordid earth-worm 
may profess love to a woman's person, whilst, 
in reality, Ins affection is centered in her 
pocket ; and the slavish drudge may go a-u 
ing as In goes to the horse-market, to choose 
one who is stout and firm, and, as we may say 



n old horsi 
tuid draw kindly. 



ho will be a good drudge 
I disdain their dirty, puny 



ideas. I would be heartilv out of humour 
with myself, if I thought I were capable of 
having so poor a notion of the sex, which 
B designed to crown the pleasures of so- 
ciety. Poor devils ! I don't envy them their 
happiness who have such notions. For my 
, I propose quite other p'easures with my 
• partner. * * * * 



No. II. 
TO THE SAME. 

MY DEAR E. 

I do not remember in the course of your ac- 
quaintance and mine, ever to have heard your 
opinion on the ordinary way of falling in love, 
amongst people of our station of life : I do not 
mean the persons who proceed in the way of 
bargain, but those whose affection is really 
placed on the person. 

Though I be, as you know very well, but a 
very aw kward lover myself, yet as I have some 
opportunities of observing the conduct of 
others who are much better skilled in the af- 
fair of courtship than I am, I often think it is 
owing to lucky chance more than to good 
management, that there are not more unhappy 
marriages than usually are. 

It is natural for a young fellow to like the 
acquaintance of the females, and customary 
for h*m to keep them company when occasion 
serves some one of them is more agreeable to 
him than the rest ; there is something, he 
knows not what, pleases him, he knows not 
how, in her company. This I take to he what 
is called love with the greatest part of us, and 
I must own, my dear E. it is a hard game 
such a one as you have to play when you meet 
with such a lover. You cannot refuse but Le 
is sincere, and yet though you use him ever so 
favourably, perhaps in a few months, or at 
farthest in a year or two^the same unaccount- 
able fancy may make him as distractedly fond 
of another, whilst you are quite forgot I am 
aware, that perhaps the next time I have the 
pleasure of seeing you, you may bid me take 
my own lesson home, and tell me that the pas- 
sion I have professed for you is perhaps one of 



BURNS' WORKS. 



loose transient flashes I have been describing ; 
but I hope, my dear E. you will do me the 
justice to believe me, when I assure you, that 
the love I have for you is founded on the sa- 
cred principles of virtue and honour, and by 
consequence, so long as you continue possessed 
of those amiable qualities which first inspired 
my passion for you, so long must I continue 
to love you. Believe me, my dear, it is love 
like this alone which can render ths married 
state happy. People may talk of flames and 
raptures as long as they please ; and a warm 
fancy with a flow of youthful spirits, may make 
them feel something like what they describe ; 
but sure I am, the nobler faculties of the mind, 
with kindred feelings of the heart, can only be 
the foundation of friendship, and it has always 
oeen my opinion, that the married life was 
only friendship in a more exalted degree. 

If you will be so good as to grant my wishes, 
and it should please providence to spare us to 
the latest periods of life, I can look forward 
and see, that even then, though bent down 
with wrinkled age ; even then, when all other 
worldly circumstances will be indifferent to 
me, I will regard my E. with the tenderest 
affection, and for this plain reason, because she 
is still possessed of those noble qualities, im- 
proved to a much higher degree, which first 
inspired my affection for her. 



I know, were I to speak in such a style to 
many a girl who think« herself possessed of no 
small share of sense, she would think it ridi- 
culous — but the language of the heart is, my 
dear E., the only courtship I shall ever use to 
you. 

When I look over what I have written, I 
611 sensible it is vastly different from the ordi- 
nary style of courtship — but I shall make no 
apology- — I know your good nature will 
what your good sense may see amiss. 



TO THE SAME. 

MR DEAR E. 

I have often thought it a peculiarly unlucky 
circumstance in love, that though, in every 
other situation in life, telling the truth is not 
only the safest, but actually by far the easiest 
way of proceeding, a lover is never under 
greater difficulty in acting, or more puzzled for 
expression, than when his passion is sincere, 
and his intentions are honourable. I do not 
think that it is very difficult for a person of 
ordinary capacity to talk of love and fondness, 
which are not felt, and to make vows of con- 
stancy and fidelity, which are never intended 
to be performed, if he be villain enough to 
practise such' detestable conduct: but to a 



man whose heart glows with the principles of 
integrity and truth ; and who sincerely loves a 
woman of amiable person, uncommon refine- 
ment of sentiment, and purity of manners — to 
such a one, in such circumstances, I can assure 
you, my dear, from my own feelings at this 
present moment, courtship is a task indeed. 
There is such a number of foreboding feat Sj 
and distrustful anxieties crowd into my mind 
when I am in your company, or when I sit 
down to write to you, that what to speak o 
what to write I am altogether at a loss. 

There is one rule which I have hitherto 
practised, and which I shall invariably keep 
with you, and that is, honestly to tell you the 
plain truth. There is something so mean and 
unmanly in the arts of dissimulation and false- 
hood, that I am surprised they can be used by 
any one in so noble, so generous a passion as 
virtuous love. No, my dear E. I shall never 
endeavour to gain your favour by such detest- 
able practices. If you will be so good and so 
generous as to admit me for your partner, your 
companion, your bosom friend through life ; 
there is nothing on this side of eternity shall 
give me greater transport; but I shall nevet 
think of purchasing your hand by any arts un- 
worthy of a man, and I will add of a Christian. 
There is one thing, my dear, which I earnest- 
ly request of you, and it is this ; that you 
would soon either put an end to my hopes by 
a peremptory refusal, or cure me of my fears 
by a generous consent. 

It would oblige me much if you would send 
me a line or two when convenient. I shall 
only add further, that if a behaviour regulat- 
ed (though perhaps but very imperfectly) by 
the rules of honour and virtue, if a- heart de- 
voted to love and esteem you, and an earnest 
endeavour to promote your happiness ; and if 
these are qualities you would wish in a friend, 
in a husband ; I hope you shall ever find them 
in your real friend and sincere lover. 



TO THE SAME. 

I ought in good manners to have acknowledg- 
ed the receipt of your letter before this time, 
but my heart was so shocked with the con- 
tents of it, that I can scarcely yet collect my 
thoughts so as to write to you on the subject, 
I will not attempt to describe what I felt on 
receiving your letter. I read it over and over, 
again and again, and though it was in the po> 
litest language of refusal, still it was peremp- 
tory ; " you were sorry you could not make 
me a return, but you wish me" what, without 
you, I never can obtain, " you wish me all 
kind of happiness." It would be weak and 
unmanly to say, that without you I never can 
be happy, but sure I am, that sharing life 



with yon, would have given it a relish, that, 
wanting you, I never can taste. 

Your uncommon personal advantages, and 
jour superior good sense, do not so much 
strike me ; these, possibly in a few instances, 
may be met with in others ; but that amiable 
goodness, that tender feminine softness, that 
endearing sweetness of disposition, with all the 
charming offering of a warm feeling heart — 
these I never again expect to meet with in such 
a degree in this world. All these charming 
qualities, heightened by an education much be- 
yond any thing I have ever met with in any 
woman I ever dared to approach, have made 
an impression on my heart that I do not think 
the world can ever efface. My imagination 
has fondly flattered itself with a wish, I dare 
not say it ever reached a hope, that possibly J 
might one day call you mine. I had formed 
the most delightful images, and my fancy fond. 
ly brooded over them •, but now I am wretch- 
ed for the loss of what I really had no right to 
expect. I must now think no more of you as 
a mistress, still I presume to ask to be admit- 
ted as a friend. As such I wish to be allow- 
ed to wait on you, and as I expect to remove 
in a few days a little farther off, and you, I sup- 
pose, will perhaps soon leave this place, I wish 
to see you or hear from you soon ; and if an 
expression should perhaps escape me rather 
too warm for friendship, I hope you will par- 
ion it in, my dear Miss , (pardon me the 

dear expression for once.) * * • 



No. V. 
TO MR JOHN MURDOCH. 

SCHOOLMASTER, 
STAPLES INN BUILDINGS, LONDON. 

WEAR sir, Itochlee, 15th January, 1783. 

As I have an opportunity of sending you a 
letter, without putting you to that expense 
which any production of mine would but ill 
repay, I embrace it with pleasure, to tell you 
that I have not forgotten, nor ever will forget, 
the many obligations I lie under to your kind- 
ness and friendship. 

I do not doubt, Sir, but you will wish to 
know what has been the result of all the pains 
of an indulgent father, and a masterly teacher ; 
and I wish I could gratify you;' curiosity with 
such a recital as you would be pleased with; 
but that is what I am afraid will not be the 
case. I have, indeed, kept pretty clear of 
vicious habits ; and in this respect, I hope, my 
conduct will not disgrace the education I have 
gotten ; hut as a man of the world, I am most 
miserably deficient. — One would have thought, 
that bred as I have been, under a father who 
bus figured pretty well as un homme des affaires, 
A might have been what the world calls a push- 



ing, active fellow; but, to tell you the truth, 
Sir, there is hardly any thing more my reverse. 
I seem to be one sent into the world to see, 
and observe ; and I very easily compound with 
the knave who tricks me of my money, if 
there be any thing original about him which 
shows me human nature in a different light 
from any thing I have seen before. In short, 
the joy of my heart is to " study men, their 
manners, and their ways ;" and for this darling 
subject, I cheerfully sacrifice every other con- 
sideration. I am quite indolent about those 
great concerns that set the bustling busy sons 
of care agog : and if I have to answer for the 
present hour, 1 am very easy with regard to 
any thing further. Even the last, worst shift" 
of the unfortunate and the wretched, does not 
much terrify me : I know that even then my 
talent for what country folks call " a sensible 
crack," when once it is sanctified by a hoary 
head, would procure me so much esteem, that 
even then — I would learn to be happy. How- 
ever, I am under no apprehensions about that ; 
for, though indolent, yet, so far as an extreme- 
ly delicate constitution permits, I am not lazy, 
and in many things, especially in tavern matters, 
1 am a strict economist; not indeed for the 
sake of the money, but one of the principal 
parts in my composition is a kind of pride of 
stomach, and I scorn to fear the face of any 
man living : above every thing, I abhor as hell, 
the idea, of sneaking in a corner to avoid a dun 
— possibly some pitiful, sordid wretch, who in 
my heart I despise and detest. 'Tis this, and 
this alone, that endears economy to me. In 
the matter of books, indeed, I am very profuse. 
My favourite authors are of the sentimental 
kind, such as Shenstone, particularly his Ile- 
gies ; Thomson; Man of Feeling, a book I 
prize next to the Bible ; Man of the World ; 
Sterne, especially his Sentimental Journey ; 
Macpherson's Ossian, &c. These are the 
glorious models after which I endeavour to 
form my conduct ; and 'tis incongruous, 'tis 
absurd, to suppose that the man whose mind 
glows with sentiments lightened up at their 
sacred flame — the man whose heart distends 
with benevolence to all the human race — he 
" who can soar above this little scene of things," 
can he descend to mind the paltry concerns 
about which the terrsefilial race fret, and fume, 
and vex themselves ? O how the glorious tri- 
umph swells my heart ! I forget that I am a 
poor insignificant devil, unnoticed and un- 
known, stalking up and down fairs and mar- 
kets, when I happen to be in them, )' nding a 
page or two of mankind, and " catwrcg the 
manners living as they rise," whilst the' men of 
business jostle me on every side as an idle en- 
cumbrance in their way But I dare ssy I 

have by this time tired your patience ; so I 
shall conclude with begging you to give Mrs 
Murdoch — not my compliments, for that is a 

* The Last drift alluded to Ihtc. must bo the cccdU 
tion of <iu itinerant beggar. 
A 2 



BURNS WORKS. 



mere common-place story, but— my warmest, 
kindest wishes for ber welfare ; and accept of 
the same for yourself, from, 

Dear Sir, 

Yours, &c. 



IThe following is taken from the MS. prose presented 
L by our Bard to Mr Riddel.] 

On rummaging over some old papers, I light- 
ed on a MS. of my early years, in which I had 
determined to write myself out, as I was placed 
by fortune among a class of men to whom my 
ideas would have been nonsense. I had 
meant that the book should have lain by me, 
in the fond hope that, some time or other, even 
after I was no more, my thoughts would fall 
into the hands of somebody capable of appre- 
ciating their value. It sets off thus : 

Observations, Hints, Sonys, Scraps o/Poe- i 
try, 8fc. by R. B. — a man who had little art in 
making money, and still less in keeping it ; but 
was, however, a man of some sense, and a great 
deal of honesty, and unbounded good-will to 
every creature, rational and irrational. As he 
was but little indebted to scholastic education, 
and bred at a plough-tail, his performances must 
be strongly tinctured with his unpolished rustic 
way of life ; but as I believe they are really 
his own, it may be some entertainment to a 
curious observer of human nature, to see how 
a ploughman thinks and feels, under the pres- 
sure of love, ambition, anxiety, grief, with the 
like cares and passions, which, however diver- 
sified by the modes and manners of life, operate 
pretty much alike, I believe, on all the species. 

" There are numbers in the world who do 
not want sense to make a figure, so much as 
an opinion of their own abilities, to put them 
upon recording their observations, and allowing 
them the same importance which they do to 
those which appear in print." — Shenstone. 

•' Pleasing, when youth is long expired, to trace 
The forms our pencil, or our pen designed ! 

Such was our youthful air, and shape, and face, 
Such the soft image of our youthful mind." 
Ibid. 

April, 1793. 
Notwithstanding all that has been said against 
love, respecting the folly and weakness it leads 
a young inexperienced mind into ; still I think 
it in a great measure deserves the highest en- 
comiums that have been passed on it. If any 
thing on earth deserves the name of rapture or 
transport, it is the feelings of green eighteen, 
n the company of the mistress of his heart, 
when she repays him Math an equal return of 
Affection. 



August. 
There is certainly some connection between 
love, and music, and poetry ; and, therefore, 
I have always thought a fine touch of nature, 
that passage in a modern love composition : 

" As tow'rd her cot, he jogg*d along, 
Her name waa frequent in his song." 

For my own part, I never had the least 
thought or inclination of turning poet, till I 
got once heartily in love ; and then rhyme and 
song were, in a manner, the spontaneous lan- 
guage of my heart. 

September. 
I entirely agree with that judicious philoso- 
pher, Mr Smith, in his excellent Theory of 
Moral Sentiments, that remorse is the most 
painful sentiment that can embitter the human 
bosom. Any ordinary pitch of fortitude may 
bear up tolerably well, under those calamities, 
in the procurement of which we ourselves have 
had no hand ; but when our follies or crimes 
have made us miserable and wretched, to bear 
up with manly firmness, and at the same time 
have a proper penitential sense of our miscon- 
I duct, is a glorious effort of self-command. 

Of all tne numerous ills that hurt, our peace, 
That press the soul, or wring the mind with an 

guish, 
Beyond comparison the worst are those 
That to our folly or our guilt we owe. 
In every other circumstance, the mind 
Has this to say — " It was no deed of mine ;" 
But when to all the evil of misfortune 
This sting is added — " Blame thy foolish self!" 
Or worser far, the pangs of keen remorse; 
The torturing, gnawing consciousness of guilts— 
Of guilt, perhaps, where we've involved others ; 
The young, the innocent, who fondly loved us. 
Nay,'more, that very love their cause of ruin J 
O burning hell ! in all thy store of torments, 
There's not a keener lash ! 
Lives there a man so firm, who, while his hear 
Feels all the bitter horrors of his crime, 
Can reason down its agonizing throbs ; 
And, after proper purpose of amendment, 
Can firmly force his jarring thoughts to peace \ 
O, happy I happy ! enviable man ! 
O glorious magnanimity of soul. 



March, 1784. 
I have often observed, in the course of my 
experience of human life, that every man, even 
the worst, has something good about him ; 
though very often nothing else than a happy 
temperament of constitution inclining him to 
this or that virtue. For this reason, no man 
can say in what degree any other person, be- 
sides himself, can be, with strict justice, called 
wicked. Let any of the strictest character for 
regularity of conduct among us, examine im- 
partially how many vices he has never been 
guilty of, not from any care or vigilance, but 



lor warn of opportunity, or some accidental 
eircumstance intervening ; how many of the 
weaknesses of mankind he has escaped, be- 
cause he was out of the line of such tempta- 
tion ; and, what often, if not always weighs 
more than all the rest, how much he is indebt- 
ed to the world's good opinion, because the 
world does not know all : I say, any man who 
can thus think, will scan the failings, nay, the 
faults and crimes, of mankind around him, 
with a brother's eye. 

I have often courted the acquaintance of 
that part of mankind commonly known by the 
ordinary phrase of blackguards, sometimes far- 
ther than was consistent with the safety of my 
character ; those who, by thoughtless prodiga- 
lity or headstrong passions, have been driven 
to ruin. Though disgraced by follies, nay, 
sometimes " stained with guilt, * * * 
• • *," I have yet found among them, 
in not a few instances, some of the noblest 
virtues, magnanimity, generosity, disinterested 
friendship, and even modesty. 



April 
As I am what the men of the world, if they 
knew such a man, would call a whimsical men- 
tal, I have various sources of pleasure and en- 
joyment, which are, in a manner, -peculiar to 
myself, or some here and there such other out- 
of-the-way person. Such is the peculiar plea- 
sure I take in the season of winter, more than 
the rest of the year. This, I believe, may be 
partly owing to my misfortunes giving my 
mind a melancholy cast: but there is some- 
thing even in the 

" Mighty tempest, and the hoary waste 
Abrupt and deep, stretch'd o'er the buried 
earth," — 

which raises the mind to a serious sublimity, 
favourable to every thing great and noble. 
There is scarcely any earthly object gives me 
more — I do not know if I should call it plea- 
sure — but something which exalts me, some- 
thing which enraptures me — than to walk in 
the sheltered side of the wood, or high planta- 
tion, in a cloudy winter-day, and hear the 
stormy wind howling among the trees, and 
raving over the plain. It is my best season 
for devotion ; my mind is wrapt up in a kind 
of enthusiasm to Him, who, in the pompous 
language of the Hebrew bard- " walks on the 
wings of the wind." In one of these seasons, 
just after a train of misfortunes, I composed 
the following : 

The wintry west extends his blast, &c. 

See Songs. 

Shenstone finely observes, that love-verses, 
writ without any real passion, are the most 
nauseous of all conceits ; and I have often 



thought that no man can be a proper cntic of 
love-composition, except he himself, in one or 
more instances, have been a warm votary of 
this passion. As I have been all along a 
miserable dupe to love, and have been led into 
a thousand weaknesses and follies by it, for 
that reason I put the more confidence in my 
critical skill, in distinguishing foppery, and con- 
ceit, from real passion and nature. Whether 
the following song will stand the test, J will 
not pretend to say, because it is my own ; only 
I can say it was at the time, genuine from the 
heart. 



Behind yon hills, &c. 



See Songs 



I think the whole species of young men 
may be naturally enough divided into two 
grand classes, which I shall call the grave and 
the merry ; though, by the bye, these terms do 
not with propriety enough express my ideas. 
The grave I shall cast into the usual division 
of those who are goaded on by the love of 
money, and those whose darling wish is to 
make a figure in the world. The merry are, 
the men of pleasure of all denominations ; the 
jovial lads, who have too much fire and spirit 
to have any settled rule of action ; but with- 
out much deliberation, follow the strong im- 
pulses of nature ; the thoughtless, the careless, 
the indolent — in particular he, who, with a 
happy sweetness of natural temper, and a 
cheerful vacancy of thought, steals through life 
— generally, indeed, in poverty and obscurity ; 
but poverty and obscurity are only evils to him 
who can sit gravely down and make a repining 
comparison between his own situation and that 
of others ; and lastly to grace the quorum, such 
are, generally, those heads are capable of al. 
the towerings of genius, and whose hearts are 
warmed with all the delicacy of feeling. 



As the grand end of human life is to culti- 
vate an intercourse with that Being to whom 
we owe life, with every enjoyment that can 
render life delightful ; and to maintain an in- 
tegritive conduct towards our fellow-creatures ; 
that so, by forming piety and virtue into habit, 
we may be fit members for that society of the 
pious and the good, which reason and revela- 
tion teach us to expect beyond the grave : I 
do not see that the turn of mind, and pursuits 
of any son of poverty and obscurity, are in the 
least more inimical to the sacred interests of 
piety and virtue, than the, even lawful, bustling 
and straining after the world's riches and hon- 
ours ; and I do not see but that he may gain 
Heaven as well (which, by the bye, is no mean 
consideration), who steals through the vale of 
life, amusing himself with every little flower 
that fortune throws in his way ; as he who, 
straining straight forward, and perhaps bespat- 
tering all about him, gains some of life's little 



BURNS' WQRKS. 



eminences ; where, after all, he can only see, 
and be seen, a little more conspicuously, than 
what, in the pride of his heart, he is apt to term 
the poor, indolent devil he has left behind him. 



There is a noble sublimity, a heart-melting 
tenderness, in some of our ancient ballads, 
which shows them to be the work of a masterly 
hand : and it has often given me many a heart- 
ache to reflect, that such glorious old bards — 
bards who very probably owed all their talents 
to native genius, yet have described the ex- 
ploits of heroes, the pangs of disappointment, 
and the meltings of love, with such fine strokes 
of nature — that their very names (O how mor- 
tifying to a bard's vanity !) are now " buried 
among the wreck of things which were." 

O ye illustrious names unknown ! who could 
feel so strongly and describe so well ; the last, 
the meanest of the muses' train — one who, 
though far inferior to your flights, yet eyes 
your path, and with trembling wing would 
sometimes soar after you — a poor rustic bard 
unknown, pays this sympathetic pang to your 
memory ! Some of you tell us, with all the 
charms of verse, that you have been unfortu- 
nate in the world — unfortunate in love : he too 
has felt the loss of his little fortune, the loss of 
friends, and, worse than all, the loss of the wo- 
man he adored. Like you, all his consolation 
was his muse : she taught him in rustic mea- 
sures to complain. Happy could he have done 
it with your strength of imagination and flow 
of verse ! May the turf lie lightly on your 
bones! and may you now enjoy that solace and 
rest which this world seldom gives to the heart, 
tuned to all the feelings of poesy and love ! 



This is all worth quoting in my MSS. and 
more than all. 

R. B. 



No. VII. 
TO MR AIKEN. 



SIR, _ Ayrshire, 1786. 

I was with Wilson, my printer, t'other day, 
and settled all our by-gone matters between 
us. After I had paid him all demands, I made 
him the offer of the second edition, on the 
hazard of being paid out of the first and readi- 
est, which he declines. By his account, the 
paper of a thousand copies would cost about 
twenty-seven pounds, and the printing about 
fifteen or sixteen : he offers to agree to this 
for the printing, if I will advance for the paper ; 



but this you know, is out of my power ; so 
farewell hopes of a second edition till I glow 
richer ! — an epocha which, I think, will arrive 
at the payment of the British national debt. 

There is scarcely any thing hurts me so 
much in being disappointed of my second edi- 
tion, as not having it in my power to show my 
gratitude to Mr Ballantyne, by publishing my 
poem of The Eriys of Ayr. I would detest 
myself as a wretch, if I thought I were capa- 
ble, in a very long life, of forgetting the honest, 
warm, and tender delicacy with which he enters 
into my interests. I am sometimes pleased 
with myself in my grateful sensations ; but I 
believe, on the whole, I have very little merit 
in it, as my gratitude is not a virtue, the con- 
sequence of reflection, but sheerly the instinc- 
tive emotion of a heart too inattentive to allow 
worldly maxims and views to settle into selfish 
habits. 

I have been feeling all the various rotations 
and movements within, respecting the excise. 
There are many things plead strongly against 
it ; the uncertainty of getting soon into busi- 
ness, the consequences of my follies, which 
may perhaps make it impracticable for me to 
stay at home ; and besides, I have for some 
time been pining under secret wretchedness,, 
from causes which you pretty well know — the 
pang of disappointment, the sting of pride, 
with some wandering stabs of remorse, which 
never fail to settle on my vitals like vultures, 
when attention is not called away by the calls 
of society or the vagaries of the muse. Ever 
in the hour of social mirth, my gaiety is the 
madness of an intoxicated crimina 1 under the 
hands of the executioner. All these reasons 
urge me to go abroad ; and to all these reasons 
I have only one answer — the feelings of a fa- 
ther. This, in the present mood I am in, 
overbalances every thing that can be laid in the 
scale against it. 



You may perhaps think it an extravagant 
fancy, but it is a sentiment which strikes home 
to my very soul : though sceptical, in some 
points, of our current belief, yet, I think, I 
have every evidence for the reality of a life be- 
yond the stinted bourne of our present exis- 
tence ; if so, then how should I, in the pre- 
sence of that tremendous Being, the Author 
of existence, how should I meet the reproaches- 
of those who stand to me in the dear relation 
of children, whom I deserted in the smiling in- 
nocency of helpless infancy? O, thou great 
unknown Power! thou Almighty God! who 
hast lighted up reason in my breast, and blessed 
me with immortality ! I have frequently wan- 
dered from that order and regularity necessary 
for the perfection of thy works, yet thou hast 
never left me nor forsaken me ! 



LETTERS. 



Since I wrote the foregoing sheet, I have 
seen something of the storm or mischief thick- 
ening over my folly-devoted head. Should 
you, my friends, my benefactors, be successful 
in your applications for me, perhaps it may not 
be in my power in that way to reap the fruit 
of your friendly efforts. What I have written 
in the preceding pages is the settled tenor of 
my present resolution ; but should inimical 
circumstances forbid me closing with your kind 
offer, or, enjoying it, only threaten to entail 
farther misery — 



To tell the truth, I have little reason for 
this last complaint, as the world, in general, 
bas been kind to me, fully up to my deserts. 
I was, for some time past, fast getting into the 
pining distrustful snarl of the misanthrope. I 
saw myself alone, unfit for the struggle of life, 
shrinking at every rising cloud in the chance- 
directed atmosphere of fortune, while, all de- 
fenceless, I looked about in vain for a cover. 
It never occurred to me, at least never with the 
force it deserved, that this world is a busy 
scene, and man a creature destined for a pro- 
gressive struggle ; and that, however I might 
possess a warm heart and inoffensive manners 
(which last, by the bye, was rather more than 
I could well boast,) still, more than these pas- 
sive qualities, there was something to be done. 
When all my school- fellows and youthful com- 
peers (those misguided few excepted, who join- 
ed, to use a Gentoo phrase, the hallachores of 
the human race), were striking off with eager 
hope and earnest intent on some one or other 
of the many paths of busy life, I was " stand- 
ing idle in the market place," or only left the 
chase of the butterfly from flower to flower, to 
hunt fancy from whim to whim. 



You see, Sir, that if to know one's errors 
were a probability of mending them, I stand a 
fair chance ; but, according to the reverend 
Westminster divines, though conviction must 
precede conversion, it is very far from always 
implying it.* 



No. VIII. 

TO MRS DUNLOP, OF DUNLOP. 

madam, Ayrshire, 1786. 

I am truly sorry I was not at home yesterday, 
when I was so much honoured with your order 



* This letter was evidently written under the dis- 
tress of mind occasioned by our Poet's separation from 
Mrs Burns 



for my copies, and incomparably moie by the 
handsome compliments you are pleased to pay 
my poetic abilities. I am fully persuaded that 
there is not any class of mankind so feelingly 
alive to the titillations of applause as the sons 
of Parnassus ; nor is it easy to conceive how 
the heart of the poor ban! dances with rapture, 
when those whose character in life gives them 
a right to be polite judges, honour him with 
their approbation. Had you been thoroughly 
acquainted with me, Madam, you cuuld not 
have touched my darling heart-chord more 
sweetly than by noticing my attempts to cele- 
brate your illustrious ancestor, the Saviour oj 
his Country. 

" Grcut, patriot hero ! ill requited chief!" 

The first book I met with in my early years, 
which I perused with pleasure, was The Life 
of Hannibal : the next was The History of Sir 
William Wallace: for several of my earlier 
years I had few other authors ; and many a 
solitary hour have I stole out, after the labori- 
ous vocations of the day, to shed a tear over 
their glorious but unfortunate stories. In 
those boyish days I remember in particular 
being struck with that part of Wallace's story 
where these lines occur — 



I chose a fine summer Sunday, the only day 
my line of life allowed, and walked half a dozen 
of miles to pay my respects to the Leglen 
wood, with as much devout enthusiasm as ever 
pilgrim did to Loretto; and, as I explored 
every den and dell where I could suppose my 
heroic countryman to have lodged, I recollect 
(for even then I was a rhymer), that my heart 
glowed with a wish to be able to make a song 
on him in some measure equal to his merits. 



TO MRS STEWART, OF STAIR. 

madam, 1786. 

The hurry of my [.reparations for going abroad 
has hindered me from performing my promise 
so soon as I intended. I have here sent you 
a parcel of songs, &c. which never made their 
appearance, except to a friend or two at most. 
Perhaps some of them may be no great enter 
iainment to you : but of that I am far from 
being -an adequate judge. The song to the 
tune of Ettnck Banks, you will easily see the 
impropriety of exposing much even in manu. 
script. I think, myself, it has some merit, 
both as a tolerable description of one of Na- 
ture's sweetest seems, a July evening, and 
one of the finest pieces of Nature's workman- 
ship, the finest indeed we know any thing of, 



JJ URNS'. WORKS. 



an amiable, beautiful young woman ;* but 1 
have no common friend to procure me that 
permission, without which I would not dare to 
spread the copy. 

1 am quite aware, madam, what task the 
world would assign me in this letter. The 
obscure bard, when any of the great condescend 
to take notice of him, should heap the altar with 
the incense of flattery. Their high ancestry, 
their own great and godlike qualities and ac- 
tions, should be recounted with the most ex- 
aggerated description. This, madam, is a task 
for which J am altogether unfit. Besides a 
certain disqualifying pride of heart, I know 
nothing of your connections in life, and have 
no access to where your real character is to be 
found — the company of your compeers : and 
more, I am afraid that even the most refined 
adulation is by no means the road to your good 
opinion. 

One feature of your character I shall ever 
with grateful pleasure remember — the recep- 
tion I got, when I had the honour of waiting 
on you at Stair. I am little acquainted with 
politeness ; but I know a good deal of benevo- 
lence of temper and goodness of heart. Sure- 
ly, did those in exalted stations know how 
happy they could make some classes of their 
inferiors by condescension and affability, they 
would never stand so high, measuring out with 
every look the height of their elevation, but 
condescend as sweetly as did Mrs Stewart of 
Stair, f 



No. X. 
R. RLACKLOCK 



THE REVEREND MR G. LOWRIE. 

REVEREND AND DEAR SIR, 

I ought to have acknowledged your favour 
long ago, not only as a testimony of your kind 
remembrance, but as it gave me an opportunity 
of sharing one of the finest, and, perhaps, one 
of the most genuine entertainments, of which 
the human mind is susceptible. A number of 
avocations retarded my progress in reading the 
poems ; at last, however, I have finished that 
pleasing perusal. Many instances have I seen 
of Nature's force and beneficence exerted under 
numerous and formidab e disadvantages ; but 
none equal to that with which you have been 
kind enough to present me. There is a pa- 
thos and delicacy in his serious poems, a vein 
of wit and humour in those of a more festive 
turn, which cannot be too much admired, nor 



* Miss A . 

f The song enclosed is that given in the Life of o 
Poet ; beginning, 

'Twas e'en— the dewy fields were green, &c 



too warmly approved ; and I think I shall never 
open the book without feeling my astonish- 
ment renewed and increased. It was my wish 
to have expressed my approbation in verse; 
but whether from declining life, or a temporary 
depression of spirits, it is at present out of my 
power to accomplish that agreeable intention. 
Mr Stewart, Professor of Morals in this 
University, had formerly read me three of the 
poems, and I had desired him to get my name 
inserted among the subscribers ; but whether 
this was done, or not, I never could learn. I 
have little intercourse with Dr Blair, but will 
take care to have the poems communicated to 
him by the intervention of some mutual friend. 
It has been told me by a gentleman, to whom 
I showed the performances, and who sought a 
copy with diligence and ardour, that the whole 
impression is already exhausted. It were, 
therefore, much to be wished, for the sake of 
the young man, that a second edition, more 
numerous than the former, could immediately 
be printed ; as it appears certain that its in- 
trinsic merit, and the exertion of the author's 
friends, might give it a more universal circula- 
tion than any thing of the kind which has been 
published within my memory.* 



FROM SIR JOHN WHITEFORD. 

SIR, Edinburgh, itk December, 1786. 

I received your letter a few days ago. I do 
not pretend to much interest, but what I have 
I shall be ready to exert in procuring the 
attainment of any object you have in view. 
Your character as a man (forgive my reversing 
your order), as well as a poet, entitle you, I 
think, to the assistance of every inhabitant of 
Ayrshire. I have been told you wished to be 
made a guager; I submit it to your considera- 
tion, whether it would not be more desirable, 
if a sum could be raised by subscription, for 
second edition of your poems, to lay it out in 
the stocking of a small farm. I am persuaded 
it would be a line of life, much more agreeable 
to your feelings, and in the end more satisfac- 
tory. When you have considered this, let me 
know, and whatever you determine upon, T 
will endeavour to promote as far as my abili. 
ties will permit. With compliments to my 
friend the doctor, i am, 

Your fiiend and well- wisher, 
JOHN WHITEFORD. 

P. S — I shall take it as a favour when you 
at any time send me a new production. 



* The reader will perceive that this is the letter 
which produced the determination of our Bard to gir» 
up his scheme of going to the "West Indies, and to try 
the fate of a new edition of his poems in Edinburgh! 
A copy of this letter was sent by Mr Lowrie to Mr G. 
Hamilton, and by him communicated to Burns, among 
whose pauers it was found. 



Xo. XI J. 

FROM 

DEAR sir, 22d December, 1786. 

I last week received a letter from Dr Black 
lock, in which he expresses a desire of seeing 
you. I write this to you, that you may lose 
no time in waiting upon him, should you not 
yet have seen him. 



I rejoice to hear, from all corners, of your 
rising fame, and I wish and expect it may 
tower still higher by the new publication. 
But, as a friend, I warn you to prepare to 
meet with your share of detraction and envy — 
a train that always accompany great men. 
For your comfort, I am in great hopes that the 
number of your friends and admirers will in- 
crease, and that you have some chance of 
ministerial, or even * * * * patronage. 
Now, my friend, such rapid success is very 
uncommon : and do you think yourself in no 
danger of suffering by applause and a full 
purse ? Remember Solomon's advice, which 
he spoke from experience, "stronger is he 
that conquers," &c. Keep fast hold of your 
rural simplicity and purity, like Telemachus, 
by Mentor's aid, in Calypso's isle, or even 
in that of Cyprus. I hope you have also Mi- 
nerva with you. I need not tell you how much 
a modest diffidence and invincible temperance 
adorn the most shining talents, and elevate the 
mind, and exalt and refine the imagination 
even of a poet. 

I hope you will not imagine I speak from 
suspicion or evil report, I assure you I speak 
from love and good report, and good opinion, 
and a strong desire to see you shine as much 
in the sunshine as you have done in the shade, 
and in the practice as you do in the theory of 
virtue. This is my prayer, in return for your 
elegant composition in verse. All here join 
in compliments, and good wishes for your fur- 
ther prosperity. 



TO MR CHALMERS. 

Edinburgh, 27 th Dec. 1786. 

MY DEAR FRIEND, 

I confess I have sinned the sin for which 
there is hardly any forgiveness — ingratitude to 
friendship — in not writing you sooner; but of 
all men living, I had intended to send you an 
entertaining letter; and by all the plodding, 
Btupid powers, that in nodding conceited ma- 
jesty preside over the dull routine of business 
—a heavily solemn oath this ! — I am, and have 
A»een ever since I came to Edinburgh, as unfit 



to write a letter of humour a 
mentary on the Revelations. 



to wnrc a com- 



To make you some amends for what, before 
you reach this paragraph, you will have suffer- 
ed, I inclose you two poems I have carded 
and spi-n since I past Glenbuck. One blank 

in the address to Edinburgh, " Fair B ," 

is the heavenly Miss Burnet, daughter to Lord 
Monboddo, at whose house I have had the 
honour to be more than once. There has not 
been any thing nearly like her, in all the com- 
binations of beauty, grace, and goodness, the 
great Creator has formed, since Milton s Eve 
on the first day of her existence. 

I have sent you a parcel of subscription- 
bills, and have written to Mr Ballentine and 
Mr Aiken, to call on you for some of them, 
if they want them. My direction is — Care of 
Andrew Bruce, merchant, Bridge Street. 



TO THE EARL OF EGLINTON. 

my lord, Edinburgh, January, 1787. 

As I have but slender pretensions to philoso- 
phy, I cannot rise to the exalted ideas of a 
citizen of the world ; but have all those na- 
tional prejudices which, I believe, glow pecu- 
liarly strong in the breast of a Scotchman. 
There is scarcely any thing to which I am sc 
feelingly alive, as the honour and welfare ot 
my country ; and, as a poet, I have no higher 
enjoyment than singing her sons and daugh- 
ters. Fate had cast my station in the veriest 
shades of life ; but never did a heart pant 
more ardently than mine, to be distinguished : 
though, till very lately, I looked in vain on every 
side for a ray of light. It is easy, then, to 
guess how much I was gratified with the coun- 
tenance and approbation of one of my country's 
most illustrious sons, when Mr Wauchope 
called on me yesterday, on the part of your 
lordship. Your munificence, my lord, cer- 
tainly deserves my very grateful acknowledg- 
ments ; but your patronage is a bounty pecu- 
liarly suited to my feelings. I am not master 
enough of the etiquette of life to know whether 
there be not some impropriety in troubling 
your lordship with my thanks ; but my heart 
whispered me to do it. From the emotions 
of my inmost soul I do it. Selfish ingratitude, 
I hope, I am incapable of; and mercenary ser- 
vility, I trust, I shall ever have so much hon- 
est pride as to detest. 



]» 



BURNS' WURKS. 



TO MRS DUNLOP. 

madam, Edinburgh, \5th January, 1787. 
Yours of the 9th current, which I am this 
moment honoured with, is a deep reproach to 
me for ungrateful neglect. I will tell you the 
real truth, for I am miserably awkward at a 
fib : I wished to have written to Dr Moore 
before I wrote to you ; but though, every day 
since I received yours of December 30th, the 
idea, the wish to write him, has constantly 
pressed on my thoughts, yet I could not for 
my soul set about it. I know his fame and 
character, and I am one of " the sons of little 
men." To write him a mere matter-of-fact 
affair, like a merchant's order, would be dis- 
gracing the little character I have; and to write 
the author of The View of Society and Man- 
ners a letter of sentiment — I declare every 
artery runs cold at the thought. I shall try, 
however, to write him to-morrow or next day. 
His kind interposition in my behalf J have al- 
ready experienced, as a gentleman waited on 
me the other day, on the part of Lord Eglin- 
ton, with ten guineas by way of subscription 
for two copies of my next edition. 

The word you object to in the mention I 
have made of my glorious countryman and 
your immortal ancestor, is indeed borrowed 
from Thomson ; but it does not strike me as 
an improper epithet. I distrusted my own 
judgment on your finding fault with it, and ap- 
plied for the opinion of some of the Literati 
here, who honour me with their critical stric- 
tures, and they all allow it to be proper. The 
song you ask J cannot recollect, and I have not 
a copy of it. I have not composed any thing 
on the great Wallace, except what you have 
seen in print, and the enclosed, which I will 
print in this edition.* You will see I have 
mentioned some others of the name. When I 
composed my Vision, long ago, I had attempt- 
ed a description of Kyle, of which the addi- 
tional stanzas are a part, as it originally stood. 
My heart glows with a wish to be able to do 
justice to the merits of the Saviour of his 
Country, which, sooner or later, I shall at least 
attempt. 

You are afraid I shall grow intoxicated with 
my prosperity as a poet. Alas ! madam, I 
know myself and the world too well. I do not 
mean any airs of affected modesty ; I am will- 
ing to believe that my abilities deserved some 
notice; but in a most enlightened, informed 
age and nation, when poetry is and has been 
the study of men of the first natural genius, 
aided with all the powers of polite learning, 
polite books, and polite company — to be drag- 
ged forth to the full glare of learned and polite 



observation, with all my imperfections of awk- 
ward rusticity and crude unpolished ideas orr 
my head — I assure you, madam, I do not dis- 
semble when I tell you I tremble for the con- 
sequences. The novelty of a poet in my ob- 
scure situation, without any of those advan- 
tages which are reckoned necessary for that 
character, at least at this time of day, has 
raised a partial tide of public notice, which has- 
borne me to a height where I am absolutely, 
feelingly certain, my abilities are inadequate to- 
support me ; and too surely do 1 see that time 
when the same tide will leave me, and recede,, 
perhaps, as far below the mark of truth. 



Your patronising me, and interesting your- 
self in my fame and character as a poet, I re- 
joice in ; it exalts me in my own idea ; and 
whether you can or cannot aid me in my sub- 
scription is a trifle. Has a paltry subscription- 
bill any charms to the heart of a bard, compar- 
ed with the patronage of the descendant of the 
immortal Wallace? 



No. XVI. 
TO DR MOORE. 

sir, 1787. 

Mrs Dunlop has been so kind as to send me 
extracts of letters she has had from you, where 
you do the rustic bard the honour of noticing 
him and his works. Those who have felt the 
anxieties and solicitudes of authorship, can 
cnly know what pleasure it gives to be noticed 
in such a manner by judges of the first charac- 
ter. Your criticisms, sir, I receive with rever- 
ence ; only, I am sorry they mostly came too 
late ; a peccant passage or two, that I would 
certainly have altered, were gone to the press. 

The hope to be admired for ages is, in by 
far the greater part of those even who are au- 
thors of repute, an unsubstantial dream. For 
my part, my first ambition was, and still my 
strongest wish is, to please my compeers, the 
rustic inmates of the hamlet, while ever chang- 
ing language and manners shall allow me to be 
relished and understood. I am very willing to 
admit that I have some poetical abilities ; and 
as few, if any writers, either moral or poetical, 
are intimately acquainted with the classes of 
mankind among whom I have chiefly mingled, 
1 may have seen men and manners in a differ- 
ent phasis from what is common, which may 
assist originality of thought. Still J know- 
very well the novelty of my character has by ; 
far the greatest share in the learned and polite 
notice I have lately had; and in a language 
where Pope and Churchill have raised the 
laugh, and Shenstone and Gray drawn the teat 
— where Thomson and Eeattie have painted- 
the landscape, and Lyttleton and Collins de- 



senbed the heart, I am not vain enough to hope 
for distinguished poetic fame. 



FROM DR MOORE. 

SIR, _ Clifford Street, January 23, 1787. 
I have just received your letter, by which I 
find I have reason to complain of my friend 
Mrs Dunlop for transmitting to you extracts 
from my letters to her, by much too freely and 
too carelessly written for your perusal. I 
must forgive her, however, in consideration of 
her good intention, as you will forgive me, I 
hope, for the freedom I use with certain ex- 
pressions, in consideration of my admiration 
of the poems in general. If I may judge of 
the author's disposition from his works, with 
all the other good qualities of a poet, he has 
not the irritable temper ascribed to that race 
of men by one of their own number, whom 
you have the happiness to resemble in ease 
and curious felicity of expression. Indeed the 
poetical beauties, however original and bril- 
liant, and lavishly scattered, are not all I ad- 
mire in your works; the love of your native 
country, that feeling sensibility to all the ob- 
jects of humanity, and the independent spirit 
which breathes through the whole, give me a 
most favourable impression of the poet, and 
have made me often regret that I did not see 
the poems, the certain effect of which would 
have been my seeing the author last summer, 
when I was longer in Scotland than I have 
been for many years. 

I rejoice very sincerely at the encourage- 
ment you receive at Edinburgh, and I think 
you peculiarly fortunate in the patronage of 
Dr Blair, who, I am informed, interests him- 
self very much for you. I beg to be remem- 
bered to him : nobody can have a warmer re- 
gard for that gentleman than I have, which, 
independent of the worth of his character, 
would be kept alive by the memory of 
our common friend, the late Mr George 
B e. 

Before I received your letter, I sent in- 
closed in a letter to , a sonnet by 

Miss Williams, a young poetical lady, which 
she wrote on reading your Mountain-Daisy; 
perhaps it may not displease you.* 

I have been trying to add to the number of 
your subscribers, but I find many of my ac- 
quaintance are already among them. I have 
only to add, that with every sentiment of es- 
teem, and most cordial good wishes, 
I am, 

Your obedient humble servant, 
J. MOORE. 

* The sonnet is as follows : 
' While soon the garden's flaunting flowers decay, 
And scattered on the earth neglected lie, 



ERS. U 

The " Mountain- Daisy," cherished by the ray 

A poet drew from heaven, shall never die. 
Ah, like that lonely flower the poet rose! 

Olid penury's bare soil and hitter gale ; 
He felt each storm that on the mountain blows. 

In or ever knew the shelter of the vale. 
By genius in her native vigour nurst, 

On nature with impassion'd look lie gazed ; 
Then through the cloud of adverse fortune burst 

Indignant, and in light unborrow'd blazed. 
Scotia! from rude affliction shield thy bard, 

His heaven-taught numbers Fame herself *UI 
guard. 



TO DR MOORE. 

reverend sir, Edinburgh, loth February, 1787. 
Pardon my seeming neglect in delaying so 
long to acknowledge the honour you have done 
me, in your kind notice of me, January 23d. 
Not many months ago, I knew no other em- 
ployment than following the plough, nor could 
boast any thing higher than a distant ac- 
quaintance with a country clergyman. Mere 
greatness never embarrasses me : I have no- 
thing to ask from the great, and I do not fear 
their judgment ; but genius, polished by learn- 
ing, and at its proper point of elevation in the 
eye of the world, this of late I frequently meet 
with, and tremble at its approach. I scorn 
the affectation of seeming modesty to cover 
self-conceit. That I have some merit I do 
not deny ; but I see, with frequent wringing* 
of heart, that the novelty of my character, and 
the honest national prejudice of my country- 
men, have borne me to a height altogether un- 
tenable to my abilities. 

For the honour Miss W. has done me, 
please, Sir, return her in my name, my most 
grateful thanks. I have more than once 
thought of paying her in kind, but have hither- 
to quitted the idea in hopeless despondency. 
I had never before heard of her ; but the other 
day I got her poems, which, for several rea- 
sons, some belonging to the head, and others 
the offspring of the heart, give me a great deal 
of pleasure. I have little pretensions to critic 
lore : there are, I think, two characteristic 
features in her poetry — the unfettered wild 
flight of native genius, and the querulous, 
sombre tenderness of " time-settled sorrow." 

I only know what pleases me, often without 
being able to tell why. 



FROM DR MOORE. 



dear sir, Clifford Street, 28th February, V/91. 

Your letter of the loth gave me a great deal 



12 



BURNS 1 WORKS. 



cf pleasure. It is not surprising that you 
prove in correctness and taste, considering 
where you have been for some time past. 
And I dare swear there is no danger of your 
admitting any polish which might weaken the 
vigour of your native powers. 

I am glad to perceive that you disdain the 
nauseous affectation of decrying your own 
merit as a poet — an affectation which is dis- 
played with most ostentation by those who 
lave the greatest share of self-conceit, and 
which only adds undeceiving falsehood to dis- 
gusting vanity. For you to deny the merit 
of your poems would be arraigning the fixed 
opinion of the public. 

As the new edition of my View of Society 
is not yet ready, I have sent you the former 
edition, which, I beg you will accept as a 
small mark of my esteem. It is sent by sea, 
to the care of Mr Creech; and, along with 
these four volumes for yourself, I have also 
sent my Medical Sketches, in one volume, for 
my friend Mrs Dunlop of Dunlop : this you 
will be so obliging as to transmit, or if you 
chance to pass soon by Dunlop, to give to 
her. 

I am happy to hear that your subscription 
is so ample, and shall rejoice at every piece of 
good fortune that befalls you : for you are a 
very great favourite in my family; and this is 
a higher compliment than perhaps you are 
aware of. It includes almost all the profes- 
sions, and of course is a proof that your writ- 
ings are adapted to various tastes and situa- 
tions. My youngest son who is at Winches- 
ter school, writes to me that he is translating 
some stanzas of your Hallowe'en into Latin 
verse, for the benefit of his comrades. This 
union of taste partly proceeds, no doubt, from 
the cement of Scottish partiality, with which 
they are all somewhat tinctured. Even your 
translator, who left Scotland too early in life 
for recollection, is not without it. 



I remain, with greatest sincerity, 
Your obedient servant, 

J. MOORE. 



TO THE EARL OF GLENCAIRN. 

MY lord, Edinburgh, 1 787. 

I wanted to purchase a profile of your lord- 
ship, which I was told was to be got in town ; 
but I am truly sorry to see that a blunder- 
ing painter has spoiled a " human face di- 
vine." The enclosed stanzas I intended to 
have written below a picture or profile of your 
lordship, could I have been so happy as to pro- 
sure one with any thing of a likeness. 

As J will soon return to my shades, I want- 



ed to have something like a material object 
for my gratitude ; I wanted to have it in my 
power to say to a friend, There is my noble 
patron, my generous benefactor. Allow me, 
my lord, to publish these verses. I conjure 
your lordship by the honest throe of gratitude, 
by the generous wish of benevolence, by all 
the powers and feelings which compose the 
magnanimous mind, do not deny me this peti- 
tion.* I owe to your lordship; and what has 
not in some other instances always been the 
case with me, the weight of the obligation is 
a pleasing load. I trust, I have a heart as in- 
dependent as your lordship's, than which lean 
say nothing more : and I would not be behold- 
en to favours that would crucify my feelings. 
Your dignified character in life, and manner 
of supporting that character, are flattering to 
my pride ; and I would be jealous of the 
purity of my grateful attachment, where I was 
under the patronage of one of the much fa- 
voured sons of fortune. 

Almost every poet has celebrated his pa- 
trons, particularly when they were names dear 
to fame, and illustrious in their country ; allow 
me, then, my lord, if you think the verses have 
intrinsic merit, to tell the world how much I 
have the honour to be 

Your lordship's highly indebted, 

And ever grateful humble servant. 



No. XXI. 
TO THE EARL OF BUCHAN. 

MY LORD, 

The honour your lordship has done me, by 
your notice and advice in yours of the 1st in- 
stant, I shall ever gratefully remember: 

" Praise from thy lips 'tis mine with joy to boast, 
They best can give it who deserve it most. ' 

Your lordship touches the darling chord of 
my heart, when you advise me to fire my muse 
at Scottish story and Scottish scenes. I wish 
for nothing more than to make a leisurely pil- 
grimage through my native country ; to sit and 
muse on those once hard-contended fields, 
where Caledonia, rejoicing, saw her bloody 
lion borne through broken ranks to victory 
and fame ; and, catching the inspiration, to 
pour the deathless names in song. But, my 
lord, in the midst of these enthusiastic reve- 
ries, a long-visaged, dry, moral -looking phan- 
tom strides across my imagination, and pro- 
nounces these emphatic words, " I, Wisdom, 
dwell with prudence." 



This, my lord, is unanswerable. I must 
return to my humble station, and woo my 
rustic muse in my wonted way at the plough- 
tail. Still, my lord, while the drops of life 
warm my heart, gratitude to that dear-loved 
country in which I boast my birth, and grati- 
tude to those her distinguished sons, who have 
honoured me so much with their patronage 
and approbation, shall, while stealing through 
my humble shades, ever distend my bosom, 
and at times draw forth the swelling tear. 



Ext. Property in favour of Mr Robert Burns, 
to erect and keep up a Headstone in memory 
of Poet Fergusson, 1787. 

Session- house, within the Kirk of Ca- 
nongate, the twenty-second day of Fe- 
bruary, one thousand seven hundred 
and eighty-seven years. 

Sederunt of the managers of the Kirk and Kirk- 
yard Funds of Canongate. 

Which day, the treasurer to the said funds 
produced a letter from Mr Robert Burns, of 
date the sixth current, which was read, and 
appointed to be engrossed in their sederunt- 
book, and of which letter the tenor follows : 
" To the Honourable Bailies of Canongate, 
Edinburgh. Gentlemen, I am sorry to be told 
that the remains of Robert Fergusson, the so 
justly celebrated poet, a man whose talents, for 
ages to come, will do honour to our Caledo- 
nian name, lie in your church-yard, among the 
ignoble dead, unnoticed and unknown. 

" Some memorial to direct the steps of the 
lovers of Scotish song, when they wish to shed 
a tear over the "narrow house" of the bard 
who is no more, is surely a tribute due to 
Fergusson's memory ; a tribute I wish to have 
the honour of paying. 

" I petition you, then, Gentlemen, to per- 
mit me to lay a simple stone over his revered 
ashes, to remain an unalienable property to his 
deathless fame. I have the honour to be, 
Gentlemen, your very humble servant, (sic 
subscribitur), "ROBERT BURNS." 

Thereafter the said managers, in considera- 
tion of the laudable and disinterested motion 
of Mr Burns, and the propriety of his request, 
did, and hereby do, unanimously grant power 
and liberty to the said Robert Burns to erect 
a headstone at the grave of the said Robert 
Fergusson, and to keep up and preserve the 
6ame to his memory in all time coming. Ex 
tracted forth of the records of the managers, by 
William Sfrott, Clerk. 



1ft 



No. XXIII. 
TO 

MY DEAR SIR, 

You may think, and too justly, that I am a 
selfish ungrateful fellow, having received st» 
many repeated instances of kindness from you. 
and yet never putting pen to paper to say — 
thank you ; but if you knew what a devil of ;t. 
life my conscience has led me on that account, 
your good heart would think yourself too muck 
avenged. By the bye, there «s nothing in the 
whole frame of man which seems to me so 
unaccountable as that thing called conscience. 
Had the troublesome yelping cur powers effi- 
cient to prevent a mischief, he might be of 
use : but at the beginning of the business, his 
feeble efforts are to the workings of passion as 
the infant frosts of an autumnal morning to the 
unclouded fervour of the rising sun : and no 
sooner are the tumultuous doings of the wicked 
deed over, than, amidst the bitter native con- 
sequences of folly, in the very vortex of our 
horrors, up starts conscience, and harrows us 

with the feelings of the d . 

I have enclosed you, by way of expiation, 
some verse and prose, that, if they merit a 
place in your truly entertaining miscellany, 
you are welcome to. The prose extract is 
literally as Mr Sprott sent it me. 

The Inscription on the Stone is as follows : 

HERE LIES ROBERT FERGUSSON,. 

POET. 

Born September 5th, YlbX—Bied, \6th October, 1774. 

No sculptured marble here, nor pompous lay 
" No storied urn nor animated bust ;" 

This simple stone directs pale Scotia's way 
To pour her sorrows o'er her poet's dust. 

On the other side of the Stone is as follows ; 

" By special grant of the Managers to Robert 
Burns, who erected this stone, this burial-place 
is to remain for ever sacred to the memory of 
Robert Fergusson." 



EXTRACT OF A LETTER 
FROM 

8th March, 1787. 
I am truly happy to know you have found a 

friend in ; his patronage of you docs 

him great honour. He is truly a good man ; 
by far the best I ever knew, or, perhaps, ever 
shall know, in this world. But I must not 
speak all I think of him, lest I should ba 
thought partial. 



BURN 3' WORKS. 



So you liave obtained liberty from tbe ma- 
gistrates to erect a stone over Fergusson's 
grave? I do not doubt it; such things have 
been, as Shakspeare says, "in the olden-time-" 

" The poet's fate, is here in emblem shown, 
He ask'd for bread, and he received a stone. " 

It is, I believe, upon poor Butler's tomb 
that this is written. But how many brothers 
of Parnassus, as well as poor Butler and poor 
Fergusson, have asked for bread, and been 
served with the same sauce ! 

The magistrates gave you liberty, did they ? 
O generous magistrates ! * * * *, celebrated 
over the three kingdoms for his public spirit, 
gives a poor poet liberty to raise a tomb to a 
poor poet's memory ! — most generous ! * * * 
once upon a time gave that same poet the 
mighty sum of eighteen pence for a copy of 
his works. But then it must be considered 
that the poet was at this time absolutely starv- 
ing, and besought his aid with all the earnest- 
ness of hunger ; and, over and above, he re- 
ceived a worth, at least one-third of 

the value, in exchange, but which, I believe, 
the poet afterwards very ungratefully expunged. 

Next week I hope to have the pleasure of 
seeing you in Edinburgh ; and as my stay will 

be for eight or ten days, I wish you or 

would take a snug, well aired bed-room for 
me, where I may have the pleasure of seeing 
you over a morning cup of tea. But by all 
accounts, it will be a matter of some difficulty 
to see you at all, unless your company is be- 
spoke a week before-hand. There is a great 
rumour here concerning your great intimacy 

•with the Duchess of , and other ladies 

of distinction. I am really told that " cards 
to invite fly by thousands each night ;" and, if 
you had one, I suppose there would also be 
" bribes to your old secretary." It seems you 
are resolved to make hay while the sun shines, 
and avoid, if possible, the fate of poor Fer- 
gusson, Quarenda pe- 

cunia primum est, virtus post nummos, is a good 
maxim to thrive by : you seemed to despise it 
while in this country ; but probably some phi- 
losopher in Edinburgh has taught you better 
sense. 

Pray, are you yet engraving as well as print- 
ing? — Are you yet seized 

" With itch of picture in the front, 
With baj-s of wicked rhyme upon't !" 

But I must give up this trifling, and attend 
to matters that more concern myself: so, as 
the Aberdeen wit says, adieu dryly, we sal 
drink phan we meet.* 



* The above extract is from a letter of one of the 
ablest of our poet's correspondents, which contains 
some interesting anecdotes of Fergusson, that we 6hould 
have been happy to have inserted, if they could have 
oeen authenticated. The writer is mistaken in suppos- 



No. XXV. 
TO MRS DUNLOP. 

madam, Edinburgh, March 22, 1787. 

I read your letter with watery eyes. A little, 
very little while ago, / had scarce a friend but 
the stubborn pride of my own bosom; now I am 
distinguished, patronized, befriended by you. 
Your friendly advices, I will not give them the 
cold name of criticisms, I receive with reve- 
rence. I have made some small alterations in 
what I before had printed. I have the advice 
of some very judicious friends among the lite- 
rati here, but with them I sometimes find it 
necessary to claim the privilege of thinning for 
myself. The noble Earl of Glencairn, to 
whom I owe more than to any man, does me 
the honour of giving me his strictures: his 
hints with respect to impropriety or indelicacy, 
I follow implicitly. 

You kindly interest yourself in my future 
views and prospects ; there I can give you no 
light ; it is all 

'•' Dark as was chaos, ere the infant sun 
Was roll'd together, or had tried his beams 
Athwart the gloom profound." 

The appellation of a Scottish bard is by far 
my highest pride ; to continue to deserve it is 
my most exalted ambition. Scottish scenes and 
Scottish story are the themes I could wish to 
sing. I have no dearer aim than to have it in 
my power, unplagued with the routine of busi- 
ness, for which heaven knows I am unfit 
enough, to make leisurely pilgrimages through 
Caledonia; to sit on the fields of her battles; 
to wander on the romantic banks of her rivers ; 
and to muse by the stately towers or venerable 
ruins, once the honoured abodes of her heroes. 

But these are all Utopian thoughts : I have 
dallied long enough with life : 'tis time to be 
in earnest. I have a fond, an aged mother to 
care for ; and some other bosom ties perhaps 
equally tender. Where the individual only 
suffers by the consequences of his own thought- 
lessness, indolence, or folly, he may be excus- 
able : nay, shining abilities, and some of the 
nobler virtues, may half-sanctify a heedless 
character : but where God and nature have 
intrusted the welfare of others to his care ; 
where the trust is sacred, and the ties are dear, 
that man must be far gone in selfishness, oi 
strangely lost to reflection, whom these con 
nexions will not rouse to exertion. 

I guess that I shall clear between two and 
three hundred pounds by my authorship; with 
that sum I intend, so far as I may be said to 



ing the magistrates of Edinburgh had any share in the 
transaction respecting the monument erected for Fer- 
gusson by our bard ; this, it is evident, passed between 
Burns and the Kirk Session of the Cauongate. Neither 
at Edinburgh, nor anywhere else, do magistrates usu- 
ally trouble themselves to inquire how the house of a 
poor poet is furnished, or how his grave v adorned. 






Jiave any intention, to return to my old ac- 
quaintance, the plough, and, if I can meet with 
a lease by which I can live, to commence far- 
mer. I do not intend to give up poetry : being 
bred to labour secures me independence ; and 
the muses are my chief, sometimes have been 
my only, enjoyment. If my practice second 
my resolution, I shall have principally at heart 
the serious business of life: but while follow- 
ing my plough, or building up my shocks, I 
shall cast a leisure glance to that dear, that 
only feature of my character, which gave me 
the notice of my country and the patronage of 
a Wallace. 

Thus, honoured madam, I have given you 
the bard, his situation, and his views, native as 
they are in his own bosom. 



TO THE SAME. 



madam, Edinburgh, \oth April, 1787. 
There is an affectation of gratitude which I 
dislike. The periods of Johnson and the 
pauses of Sterne may hide a selfish heart. For 
my part, madam, I trust I have too much pride 
for servility, and too little prudence for selfish- 
ness. 1 have this moment broke open your 
letter, but 

" Rude am I in speech, 
And therefore little can I grace my cause 
In speaking for myself — " 

so I shall not trouble you with any fine speeches 
and hunted figures. I shall just lay my hand 
on my heart, and say, I hope I shall ever have 
the truest, the warmest, sense of your good- 
ness. 

I come abroad in print for certain on 
Wednesday. Your orders I shall punctually 
attend to; only, by the way, I must tell you 
that I was paid before for Dr Moore's and 
Miss W.'s copies, through the medium of 
Commissioner Cochrane in this place ; but 
that we can settle when I have the honour of 
waiting on you. 

Dr Smith* was just gone to London the 
morning before I received your letter to him. 



No. XXVII. 

TO DR MOORE. 

Edinburgh, 23d April, 1787. 
J received the books, and sent the one you 
mentioned to Mrs Dunlop. I am ill-skilled 
in beating the coverts of imagination for meta- 

• Adam Smith. 



phors of gratitude. I thank you. sir, for the 
honour you have done me ; and to my latest 
hour will warmly remember it. To be highly 
pleased with your book, is what I have in 
common with the world ; but to regard these 
volumes as a mark of the author's friendly 
esteem, is a still more supreme gratification. 

I leave Edinburgh in the course of ten days 
or a fortnight ; and after a few pilgrimages 
over some of the classic ground of Caledonia, 
Cowden-Knowes, Ban/is of Yarrow, Tweed, Sfc. 
I shall return to my rural shades, in all likeli- 
hood never more to quit them. I have formed 
many intimacies and friendships here, but I am 
afraid they are all of too tender a construction 
to bear carriage a hundred and fifty miles. To 
the rich, the great, the fashionable, the polite, 
I have no equivalent to offer ; and I am afraid 
my meteor appearance will by no means entitle 
me to a settled correspondence with any of 
you, who are the permanent lights of genius 
and literature. 

My. most respectful compliments to Miss 
W. If once this tangent flight of mine were 
over, and I were returned to my wonted lei- 
surely motion in my old circle, I may probably 
endeavour to return her poetic compliment in 
kind. 



EXTRACT OF A LETTER 

TO MRS DUNLOP. 

Edinburgh, 30th April, 1787. 

Your criticisms, madam, I understand 

very well, and could have wished to have 
pleased you better. You are right in your 
guess that I am not very amenable to counsel. 
Poets, much my superiors, have so flattered 
those who possessed the adventitious qualities 
of wealth and power, that I am determined to 
flatter no created being either in prose or verse. 

I set as little by , lords, clergy, cri- 
tics, &c. as all these respective gentry do by 
my hardship. I know what I may expect 
from the world by and by— illiberal abuse, and 
perhaps contemptuous neglect. 

I am happy, madam, that some cf my own 
favourite pieces are distinguished by your par- 
ticular approbation. For my Dream, which 
has unfortunately incurred your loyal displea- 
sure, I hope in four weeks, or less, to have the 
honour of appearing at Dunlop in its defence, 
in person. 



16 



BURNS' WORKS. 



TO THE REVEREND DR HUGH 
BLAIR 

Lawn- Market, Edinburgh, 3d May, 1787. 

REVEREND AND MUCH RESPECTED SIR, 

f leave Edinburgh to-morrow morning, but 
could not go without troubling you with half 
a line, sincerely to thank you for the kindness, 
patronage, and friendship you have shown me. 
I often felt the embarrassment of my singular 
situation ; drawn forth from the veriest shades 
of life to the glare of remark ; and honoured 
by the notice of those illustrious names of my 
country, whose works, while they are applauded 
to the end of time, will ever instruct and mend 
the heart. However the meteor-like novelty 
of my appearance in the world might attract 
notice, and honour me with the acquaintance 
of the permanent lights of genius and litera- 
ture, those who are truly benefactors of the 
immortal nature of man ; I knew very well, 
that my utmost merit was far unequal to the 
* : of preserving that character when once 



mind, that abuse, or almost even neg] 



the novelty was over. I have made up my 
ieglect, will 
not surprise me in my quarters. 

I hare sent you a proof impression of Beu- 
go's work for me, done on Indian paper, as a 
trifling but sincere testimony with what heart- 
warm gratitude I am, &c. 



FROM DR BLAIR. 

At gyle- Square, Edinburgh, 1th May, 1787. 

dear sir, 
I was favoured this forenoon with your very 
obliging letter, together with an impression of 
your portrait, for which I return you my best 
thanks. The success you have met with I do 
not think was beyond your merits ; and if I 
have had any small hand in contributing to it, 
it gives me great pleasure. I know no way in 
which literary persons, who are advanced in 
years, can do more service to the world, than 
m forwarding the efforts of rising genius, or 
bringing forth unknown merit from obscurity. 
I was the first person who brought out to the 
notice of the world, the poems of Ossian : 
first by the Fragments of Ancient Poetry which 
I published, and afterwards, by my setting on 
foot the undertaking for collecting and pub- 
lishing the Works of Ossian ; and I have 
always considered this as a meritorious action 
of my life. 

Your situation, as you say, w r as indeed very 
singular; and, in being brought out all at once 
from the shades of deepest privacy, to so great 
a share of public notice and observation, vou 



had to stand a severe triaL I am happy that 
you have stood it so well ; and as far as I have 
known or heard, though in the midst of many 
temptations, without reproach to your charac- 
ter and behaviour. 

You are now, I presume, to retire to a more' 
private walk of life ; and I trust, will conduct 
yourself there with industry, prudence, and 
honour. You have laid the foundation fox 
just public esteem. In the midst of those em- 
ployments, which your situation will render 
proper, you will not, I hope, neglect to pro- 
mote that esteem, by cuhivating your genius, 
and attending to such productions of it as may 
raise your character still higher. At the same 
time, be not in too great a haste to come for- 
ward. Take time and leisure to improve and 
mature your talents ; for on any second pro- 
duction you give the world, your fate, as a 
poet, will very much depend. There is, no 
doubt, a gloss of novelty which time wears off. 
As you very properly hint yourself, you are 
not to be surprised if, in your rural retreat, you 
do not find yourself surrounded with that glare 
of notice and applause which here shone upon 
you. No man can be a good poet without 
being somewhat of a philosopher. He must 
lay his account, that any one, who exposes 
himself to public observation, will occasionally 
meet with the attacks of illiberal censure, 
which it is always best to overlook and despise. 
He will be inclined sometimes to court retreat, 
and to disappear from public view. He will 
not affect to shine always, that he may at pro- 
per seasons come forth with more advantage 
and energy. He will not think himself ne- 
glected if he be not always praised. I have 
taken the liberty, you see, of an old man, to 
give advice and make reflections which your 
own good sense will, I dare say, render unne- 
cessary. . < 

As you mention your being just about to 
leave town, you are going, I should suppose, 
to Dumfriesshire, to look at some of Mr 
Miller's farms. 1 heartily wish the offers to 
be made you there may answer ; as I am per- 
suaded you will not easily find a more gener- 
ous and better hearted proprietor to live under 
than Mr Miller. When you return, if you 
come this way, I will be happy to see you, and 
to know concerning your future plans of life. 
You will find me, by the 22d of this month, 
not in my house in Argyle Square, but at a 
country-house at Restalrig, about a mile east 
from Edinburgh, near the Musselburgh road. 
Wishing you all success and prosperity, I am, 
with real regard and esteem, 
Dear Sir, 

Yours sii'^erely, 

HUGH BLAJil. 



LETTERS. 



17 



No. XXXI. 

FROM DR MOORE. 

IlEAB SIR, Clifford Street, May 23, L7b7. 
I HAD the pleasure of your letter by Mr Creech, 
and soon after he sent me the ne\v edition of 
your poems. You seem to think it incumbent 
on you to send to each subscriber a number of 
Copies proportionate to his subscription mo- 
ney; but you may depend upon it, few sub- 
scribers expect more than one copy, whatever 
they subscribed. I must inform you, however, 
that I took twelve copies for those subscribers 
tor whose money you were so accurate as to 
send me a receipt ; and Lord Eglinlon told 
me he had sent tor six copies for himself, as 
he wished to give live of them in presents. 

Some of the poems you have added in this 
last edition are beautiful, particularly the Win- 
ter Night, the Address to Edinburgh, Green 
grow the Rashes, and the two songs immedi- 
ately following ; the latter of which was ex- 
quisite. By the way, I imagine you have a 
peculiar talent for such compositions, which 
you ought to indulge. * No kind of poetry 
demands more delicacy or higher polishing. 
Horace is more admired on account of his 
Odes than all his other writings. Rut nothing 
now added is equal to your Vision and Cottar's 
Saturday Night. In these are united fine 
imagery, natural and pathetic description, with 
sublimity of language and thought. It is evi- 
dent that you already possess a great variety of 
expression and command of the English lan- 
guage ; you ought, therefore, to deal more 
sparingly for the future in the provincial dia- 
lect : — why should you, by using that, limit the 
number of your admirers to those who under- 
stand the Scottish, when you can extend it to 
all persons of taste who understand the English 
language? In my opinion, you should plan 
some larger work than any you have as yet 
attempted. I mean, reflect upon some proper 
subject, and arrange the plan in your mind, 
without beginning to execute any part of it till 
you have studied most of the best English 
"pott.-, and read a little more of history. The 
Greek and Roman stories you can read in some 
abridgment, and soon become master of the 
most brilliant facts, which must highly delight 
a poetical mind. You should also, and very 
soon may, become master of the heathen my- 
thology, to w Inch there are everlasting allusions 
in all the poets, and which in itself is charm- 
ingly fanciful. What will require to be stu- 
died with more attention, is modern history ; 
that is, the history of France and Great Bri- 
tain, from the beginning of Henry the Seventh's 
reign. I know very well you have a mind 
capable of attaining knowledge by a shorter 
process than is commonly used, and I am cer- 



i His 



jui.y 



| tain you are capable of making a better use of 
I it, when attained, thai is generally done. 

I beg you will not give yourself the trouble 
of writing to me woen it is inconvenient, and 
make no apology, when you do write. for hav- 
ing postponed it; be assured of this, however, 
that 1 shall always be happy to hear from you. 

1 think my friend Mr told me that you 

had some poems in manuscript by you of a 
satirical and humorous nature (in which, by 
the way, I think you very strong,) which your 
prudent friends prevailed on you to omit, par- 
ticularly one called Somebody's Confession; if 
you will intrust me with a sight 'of any ot 
these, I will pawn my word to give no copies, 
and will be obliged to you tor a perusal of 
them. 

I understand you intend to take a farm, and 
make the useful and respectable business of 
husbandry your chief occupation ; this, I hope, 
will not prevent your making occasional ad- 
dresses to the nine ladies who have shown you 
such favour, one of whom visited you in the 
auld clay biyyin. Virgil, before you, proved 
to the world that there is nothing in the busi- 
ness of husbandry inimical to poetry ; and I 
sincerely hope that you may afford an example 
of a good poet being a successful farmer. I 
fear it will not be in my power to visit Scot- 
land this season ; when I do, I'll endeavour to 
find you out, for I heartily wish to see and 
converse with you. If ever your occasions 
call you to this place, I make no doubt of your 
paying me a visit, and you may depend on * 
•erv cordial welcome from this family. 
I am, dear Sir, 
Your friend and obedient Servant, 
J. MOORE. 



No. XXXII. 

FROM MR JOHN HUTCHINSON. 

SIR, Jamaica, St Ann's, lith June, 1787. 
I received yours, dated Edinburgh, 2d Janu- 
ary, 1787, wherein you acquaint me you were 
engaged with Mr liouglas of Port Antonio, 
for three years, at thirty pounds sterling a-year; 
and am happy some unexpected accidents in- 
tervened that prevented your sailing with the 
vessel, as I have great reason to think Ml 
Douglas's employ would by no means have 
answered your expectations. I received a copy 
of your publications, for which I return you 
my thanks, and it is my own opinion, as well 
as that of such of my friends as have seen 
them, they are most excellent in their kind ; 
although some could have wished they had 
been in the English style, as they allege the 
Scottish dialect is now becoming obsolete, and 
thereby the elegance and beauties of youi 
poems are in a great measure lost to tar the 
greater part of the community. Nevertheless 
there is no deubt vou had sufficient reasons tor 

n 



18 



BURNS' WORKS. 



your conduct — perhaps the wishes of some of 
the Scottish nobility and gentry, your patrons, 
who will always relish their own old country 
style; and your own inclinations for the same. 
It is evident from several passages in your 
works, you are as capable of writing in the 
English as in the Scottish dialect, and I am 
in great hopes your genius for poetry, from the 
specimen you have already given, will turn out 
both for profit and honour to yourself and 
country. I can by no means advise you now 
to think of coming to the West Indies, as, I 
assure you, there is no encouragement for a 
man of learning and genius here; and am very 
confident you can do far better in Great Bri- 
tain, than in Jamaica. I am glad to hear my 
friends are well, and shall always be happy to 
hear from you at all convenient opportunities, 
wishing you success in all your undertakings. 
I will esteem it a particular favour if you will 
send me a copy of the other edition you are 
now printing. 

I am, with respect, 
Dear Sir, yours, &c. 

JOHN HUTCHINSON. 



No. XXXIII. 

TO MR WALKER, BLAIR OF 
ATHOLE. 

Inverness, bth September, 1787. 

MY DEAR SIR, 

I have just time to write the foregoing,* and 
to tell you that it was (at least most part of it,) 
the effusion of an half hour I spent at Bruar. 
I do not mean it was extempore, for I have 
endeavoured to brush it up as well as Mr 

N 's chat, and the jogging of the chaise, 

would allow. It eases my heart a good deal, 
as rhyme is the coin with which a poet pays 
his debts of honour or gratitude. What I owe 
to the noble family of Athole, of the first kind, 
I shall ever proudly boast •, what I owe of the 
last, so help me God in my hour of need, I 
shall never forget. 

The little " angel band !" — I declare I pray- 
ed for them very sincerely to-day at the Fall 
of Fyars. I shall never forget the fine family- 
piece I saw at Blair; the amiable, the truly 
noble Duchess, with her smiling little seraph 
in her lap, at the head of the table ; the lovely 
" olive plants," as the Hebrew bard finely says, 
round the happy mother ; the beautiful Mrs 

G ; the lovely, sweet Miss C. &c. I 

wish. I had the powers of Guido to do them 
justice ! My Lord Duke's kind hospitality, 

markedly kind, indeed Mr G- of F 's 

charms of conversation — Sir W. M 's 

friendship- in short, the recollection of all 



that polite, agreeable company, raises an honest 
glow in my bosom. 



No. XXXIV. 
TO MR GILBERT BURNS. 

Edinburgh, Uth September, 1787. 

MY DEAR BROTHER, 

I arrived here safe yesterday evening, after a 
tour of twenty-two days, and travelling near 
six hundred miles, windings included. My 
farthest stretch was about ten miles beyond 
Inverness. I went through the heart of the 
Highlands, by Crieff, Taymouth, the famous 
seat of Lord Breadalbane, down the Tay, 
among cascades and druidical circles of stones 
to Dunkeld, a seat of the Duke of Athole ; 
thence cross Tay, and up one of his tributary 
streams to Blair of Athole, another of the 
Duke's seats, where I had the honour of spend- 
ing nearly two days with his Grace and fa- 
mily ; thence many miles through a wild 
country, among cliffs grey with eternal snows, 
and gloomy savage glens, till I crossed Spey 
and went down the stream through Strathspey, 
so famous in Scottish music, Badenoch, &c. 
till I reached Grant Castle, where I spent half 
a day with Sir James Grant and family ; and 
then crossed the country for Fort George, but 
called by the way at Cawdor, the ancient seat 
of Macbeth ; there I saw the identical bed in 
which, tradition says, King Duncan was mur- 
dered : lastly, from Fort George to Inverness. 
I returned by the coast, through Nairn, 
Forres, and so on, to Aberdeen ; thence to 
Stonehive, where James Burnes, from Mon- 
trose, met me by appointment. I spent two 
days among our relations, and found our aunts, 
Jean and Isabel, still alive, and hale old wo- 
men. John Caird, though born the same year 
with our father, walks as vigorously as I can ; 
they have had several letters from his son in 
New York. William Brand is likewise a 
stout old fellow : but further particulars I de- 
lay till I see you, which will be in two or three 
weeks. The rest of my stages are not worth 
rehearsing : warm as I was from Ossian's 
country, where I had seen his very grave, what 
cared I for fishing towns or fertile carses ? I 
slept at the famous Brodie of Brodie's one 
night, and dined at Gordon Castle next day 
with the Duke, Duchess, and family. I am 
thinking to cause my old mare to meet me, by 
means of John Ronald, at Glasgow ; but you 
shall hear farther from me before I leave 
Edinburgh. My duty, and many compliments 
from the north, to my mother, and my brotherly 
compliments to the rest. I have been trying 
for a birth for William, but am not likely to 
be successful. — Farewell. 



No. XXXV. 
FROM MR R . 

sir, Ochtertyre, 22d October, 1787. 

Twas only yesterday I got Colonel Edmon- 
etoune's answer, that neither the words of 
Down the burn Davie, nor Dainty Davie (I 
forgot which you mentioned), were written by 
Colonel G. Crawford. Next time I meet 
him, I will inquire about his cousin's poetical 
talents. 

Enclosed are the inscriptions you requested, 
and a letter to Mr Young, whose company and 
musical talents will, I am persuaded, be a feast 
to you.* Nobody can give you better hints, 



WRITTEN' IN 1768. 

£OR THE SALICTUMf AT OCHTERTYRE. 

Salubritatis volnptatisque causa, 

Hoc Salictum, 

Paludem olim infidara, 

Mihi meisque desicco et exorno. 

Hie, prncul negotiis strepituque 



Apiumque labores suspiciendi, 

Fruor, 

Hie, si faxit Deus opt. max. 

Prope huuc fontem pelluciduro. 

Cum quadam juventutis amico superstite 

Ssepe conquiescam, senex, 

Contentus modicis, meoque lsetusl 

Sin aliter— 

iEvique paululum supersit, 



ENGLISHED. 

T(i improve both air and soil, 

I drain and decorate this plantation of willows, 

Which was lately an unprofitable morass. 

Here, far from noise and strife, 

I love to wander, 

Now fondly marking the progress of my trees, 

Now studying the bee, its arts and manners. 

Here, if it pleases Almighty God, 

May I often rest in the evening- of life, 

Near that transparent fountain, 

With some surviving friend of my youth} 

Contented with a competency, 

And happy with my lot. 

If vain these humble wishes, 

And life draws near a close, 

Ye trees and friends, 

And whatever else is dear, 

Farewell, and long may ye flourish. 



ABOVE THE DOOR OF THE HOUSE. 
WRITTEN IN 1775. 

Mini meisque utinara contingat, 

Prope Taichi marginera, 

Avito in a^ello, 

Bene vivere fausteque mori J 



TERS. 19 

as to your present plan, than lie. Receire 
also Omeron Cameron, which seemed to make 
such a deep impression on your imagination, 
that I am not without hopes it will beget some- 
thing to delight the public in due time : and, 
no doubt, the circumstances of this little tale 
might be varied or extended, so as to make 
part of a pastoral comedy. Age or wounds 
might have kept Omeron at home, whilst his 
countrymen were in the field. His station 
may be somewhat varied, without losing his 
simplicity and kindness • * * •. A group 
of characters, male and female, connected with 
the plot, might be formed from his family, or 
some neighbouring one of rank. It is not in- 
dispensable that the guest should be a man of 
high station ; nor is the political quarrel in 
which he is engaged, of much importance, un 
less to call forth the exercise of generosity and 
faithfulness, grafted on patriarchal hospitality. 
To introduce state affairs, would raise the 
style above comedy ; though a small spice of 
them would season the converse of swains. 
Upon this head I cannot say more than to re- 
commend the study of the character of Eumseus 
in the Odyssey, which, in Mr Pope's transla- 
tion, is an exquisite and invaluable drawing 
from nature, that would suit some of our coun- 
try elders of the present day. 

There must be love in the plot, and a happy 
discovery ; and peace and pardon may be the 
reward of hospitality, and honest attachment 
to misguided principles. When you have once 
thought of a plot, and brought the story into 
form, Dr Blacklock, or Mr H. Mackenzie, 
may be useful in dividing it into acts and 
scenes ; for in these matters one must pay 
some attention to certain rules of the drama. 
These you could afterwards fill up at your lei- 
sure. But, whilst I presume to give a few 
well-meant hints, let me advise you to study 
the spirit of my namesake's dialogue, * which 
is natural without being low, and, under the 
trammels of verse, is such as country people in 
their situations speak every day. You have 
only to bring down your own strain a very lit- 
tle. A great plan, such as this, would con- 
center all your ideas, which facilitates the exe- 
cution, and makes it a part of one's pleasure. 

1 approve of your plan of retiring from din 
and dissipation to a farm of very moderate size, 



ENGLISHED. 

On the banks of the Teith, 

In the small but sweet inheritance 

Of my fathers, 

May I and mine live in peace, 

And die in joyful hope 1 



These inscriptions, and the translations, are in the 

hand-writing of Mr R . 

This gentleman, if still alive, will, it is Imped, excuse 

the liberty taken by the unknown editor, in enriching 

the correspondence of Burns with his excellent letter^ 

and with inscriptions so classical and so Interesting. 

* Allan Ramsay, iu the Gentle Shepherd. 

B2 



so 



BURNS' WORKS. 



sufficient to find exercise for mind and body, 
but not so great as to absorb better things. 
And if some intellectual pursuit be well cbosen 
and steadily pursued, it will be more lucrative 
tban most farms, in this age of rapid improve- 
ment. 

Upon this subject, as your well-wisher and 
admirer, permit me to go a step farther. Let 
those bright talents which the Almighty has 
bestowed on you, be henceforth employed to 
the noble purpose of supporting the cause of 
truth and virtue. An imagination so varied 
and forcible as yours, may do this in many dif- 
ferent modes ; nor is it necessary to be always 
serious, which you have been to good purpose ; 
good morals may be recommended in a comedy, 
or even in a song. Great allowances are due 
to the heat and inexperience of youth ; — and 
few poets can boast, like Thomson, of never 
having written a line, which, dying, they would 
wish to blot. In particular, I wish you to 
keep clear of the thorny walks of satire, which 
makes a man a hundred enemies for one friend, 
and is doubly dangerous when one is supposed 
to extend the slips and weaknesses of indivi- 
duals to their sect or party. About modes of 
faith, serious and excellent men have always 
differed ; and there are certain curious ques- 
tions, which may afford scope to men of meta- 
physical heads, but seldom mend the heart or 
temper. Whilst these points are beyond hu- 
man ken, it is sufficient that all our sects con- 
cur in their views of morals. You will forgive 
me for these hints. 

Well ! what think you of good Lady C. ? 
It is a pity she is so deaf, and speaks so indis- 
tinctly. Her house is a specimen of the man- 
sions of our gentry of the last age, when hos- 
pitality and elevation of mind were conspicu- 
ous amidst plain fare and plain furniture. I 
shall be glad to hear from you at times, if it 
were no more than to show that you take the 
effusions of an obscure man like me in good 
part. I beg my best respects to Dr and Mrs 
Blacklock,* 

And am, Sir, 

Your most obedient humble servant. 

J. RAMSAY. 

* TALE OF OMERON CAMERON. 

In one of the wars betwixt the Crown of Scotland 
end the Lords of the Isles, Alexander Stewart, Earl of 
Mar (a distinguished character in the fifteenth century), 
and Donald Stewart, Earl of Caithness, had the com- 
mand of the royal array. They marched into Lochaber, 
with a view of attacking a body of M'Donalds, com- 
manded by Donald Balloon, and posted upon an arm of 
the sea which intersects that country. Having- timely 
intelligence of their approach, the insurgents got off 
precipitately to the opposite shore in their curaghs, or 
boats covered with skins. The king's troops encamped 
in ful. security; but the M'Donalds, returning about 
midnight, surprised them, killed the Earl of Caithness, 
and destroyed or dispersed the whole army. 

The Earl of Mar escaped in the dark, without any 
attendants, and made for the more hilly pafet of the 
country. In the course of his flight he came to the 
house of a poor man, whose name was Omeron Came- 
ron. The landlord welcomed his guest with the utmost 
kindness ; but, as there was no meat in the house, he 



No. XXX V/. 

FROM MR W . 

Athole House, 13th September, 1787. 
Youe letter of the 5th reached me only on the 
11th; what awkward route it had taken 1- 
know not ; but it deprived me of the pleasure 
of writing to you in the manner you proposed,- 
as you must have left Dundee before a letter 
could possibly have got there. I hope your 
disappointment on being forced to leave us was 
as great as appeared from your expressions. 
This is the best consolation for the greatness 
of ours. I still think with vexation on that 
ill-timed indisposition which lost me a day's 
enjoyment of a man (I speak without flattery) 
possessed of those very dispositions and talents 

I most admire ; one 

You know how anxious the Duke 

was to have another day of you, and to let Mr 
Dundas have the pleasure of your conversation 
as the best dainty with which he could enter- 



told his wife he would directly kill Mool Odhar,* to 
feed the stranger. " Kill our only cow !" said she, 
" our own and our little children's principal support!" 
More attentive, however, to the present call for hospi- 
tality, than to the remonstrances of his wife, or the 
future exigencies of his family, he killed the cow. The 
best and tenderest parts were immediately roasted be- 
fore the fire, and plenty of innirich, or Highland soup, 
prepared to conclude their meal. — The whole family and 
their guest ate heartily, and the evening was spent as 
usual, in telling tales and singing songs beside a cheer- 
ful fire. Bed-time came ; Omeron brushed the hearth, 
spread the cow hide upon it, and desired the stranger 
to lie down. The Earl wrapped his plaid about him, 
and slept sound on the hide, whilst the family betook 



Next morning they had a plentiful breakfast, and at 
his departure his guest asked Cameron, if he knew 
whom he had entertained ? " You may probably," an- 
swered he, "be one of the king's officers; but whoever 
you are, you came here in distress, and here it was my 
duty to protect you. To what my cottage afforded, you 
are "most welcome." — "Your guest, then," replied the 
other, *' is the Earl of Mar : and if hereafter you fall 
into any misfortune, fail not to come to the castle of 
Kildrummie."— " My blessing be with you! noble stran- 
ger," said Omeron ; " if I am ever in distress, you shall 

The royal army was soon after re-assembled ; and the 
insurgents, finding themselves unable to make head 
against it, dispersed. The M'Donalds, however, got 
notice that Omeron had been the Earl's host, and forced 
him to fly the country. He came with his wife and 
children to the gate of Kildrummie Castle, and required 
admittance with a confidence which hardly corresponded 
with his habit and appearance. The porter told him, 
rudely, his Lordship was at dinner, and must not be 
disturbed. He became noisy and importunate: at last 
his name was announced. Upon hearing that it was 
Omeron Cameron, the Earl started from his seat, and is 
said to have exclaimed in a sort of poetical stanza, " I 
was a night in his house, and fared most plentifully ; 
but flaked of clothes was my bed. Omeron from Breu- 
gach is an excellent fellow!" He was introduced into 
the great hall, and received with the welcome he de- 
served Upon hearing how he had been treated, the 
Earl gave him a four merk land near the castle ; and it 
is said there are still in the country a number of Came. 
rous descended of this Highland Eumaeus. 



tain an honoured guest. You know likewise 
the eagerness the ladies showed to detain you ; 
tut perhaps you do not know the scheme 
which they devised, with their usual fertility 
: in resources. One of the servants was sent to 
your driver to brihe him to loosen or pull off a 
shoe from one of his horses, but the ambush 
failed. Pro/i minim i The driver was incor- 
ruptible. Your verses have given us much 
-delight, and I think will produce their proper 
effect.* They produced a powerful one im- 
mediately; for the morning after I read them, 
we all set out in procession to the Bruar, where 
none of the ladies had been these seven or 
eight years, and again enjoyed them there. 
The passages we most admired are the descrip- 
tion of the dying trouts. Of the high fall 
" twisting strength," is a happy picture of the 
upper part. The characters of the birds, 
" mild and mellow," is the thrush itself. The 
benevolent anxiety for their happiness and 
■safety I highly approve. The two stanzas 
beginning " Here haply too" — darkly dashing, 
is most descriptively Ossianic. 



Here I cannot deny myself the pleasure of 
mentioning an incident which happened yester- 
day at the Bruar. As we passed the door of 
a most miserable hovel, an old woman curtsied 
to us with looks of such poverty, and such 
contentment, that each of us involuntarily gave 
her some money. She was astonished, and in 
the confusion of her gratitude, iavited us in. 
Miss C. and I, that we might not hurt her 
delicacy, entered — but, good God, what wretch- 
edness ! It was a cow-house — her own cottage 
iad been burnt last winter. The poor old 
creature stood perfectly silent — looked at Miss 
C. then to the money, and burst into tears — 
Miss C. joined her, and, with a vehemence of 
sensibility, took out her purse, and emptied it 
into the old woman's- lap. What a charming 
scene! — A sweet accomplished girl of seven- 
teen in so angelic a situation! Take your 
pencil and paint her in your most glowing 
tints. — Hold her up amidst the darkness of 
this scene of human woe, to the icy dames 
that flaunt through the gaieties of life, without 
ever feeling one generous, one great emotion. 

Two days after you left us, I went to Tay- 
mouth. It is a charming place, but still I 
think art has been too busy. Let me be your 
Cicerone for two days at Dunkeld, and you 
will acknowledge that in the beauties of naked 
nature we are not surpassed. The loch, the 
Gothic arcade, and the fall of the hermitage, 

fave me most delight. But I think the last 
as not been taken proper advantage of. The 
hermitage is too much in the common-place 
Btyle. Every body expects the couch, the 
.book-press, and the hairy gown. The Duke's 



mbJe Petition of Bruar- Water t 



rERS. 21 

idea I think better. A rich and elegant apart, 
merit is an excellent contrast to a scene of 
Alpine horrors. 

I must now beg your permission (unless you 
have some other design) to have your verses 
printed. They appear to me extremely cor- 
rect, and some particular stanzas would give 
universal pleasure. Let me know, however, 
if you incline to give them any farther touches. 

Were they in some of the public papers, we 
could more easily disseminate them among our 
friends, which many of us are anxious to do. 

When you pay your promised visit to the 
Braes of Ochtertyre, Mr and Mrs Graham of 
Balgowan beg to have the pleasure of conduc- 
ting you to the bower of Bessy Bell and Mary 
Gray, which is now in their possession. The 
Duchess would give any consideration for 
another sight of your letter to Dr Moore ; we 
must fall upon some method of procuring it for 
her. I shall inclose this to our mutual friend 

Dr B , who may forward it. I shall be 

extremely happy to hear from you at your first 
leisure. Inclose your letter in a cover ad- 
dressed to the Duke of Athole, Dunkeld. 
God bless you, 

J W » 



No. XXXVII. 
FROM MR A M- 



sm, 6th October, 1787. 

Having just arrived from abroad, I had your 
poems put into my hands : the pleasure I re- 
ceived in reading them, has induced me to 
solicit your liberty to publish them amongst 
a number of our countrymen in America, (to 
which place I shall shortly return), and where 
they will be a treat of such excellence, that it 
would be an injury to your merit and their 
feeling to prevent their appearing in public. 

Receive the following hastily-written lines 
from a well-wisher. 

Fair fa* your pen, my dainty Rob, 

Your leisom way o' writing, 
Whiles, glowring o'er your warks 1 sob, 

Whiles laugh, whiles downright greeting : 
Your sonsie tykes may charm a chiel, 

Their words are wondrous bonny, 
But guid Scotch drink the truth does say. 

It is as guid as ony 

Wi' you this day. 

Poor Mailie, troth, I'll nae but think, 

Ye did the poor thing wraj'g, 
To leave her tether'd on the brink 

Of stank sae wide and lang ; 
Her dying words upbraid ye sair, 

Cry fye on your neglect ; 
Guid faith! gin ye had got play fair, 

This deed had stretch'd your neck 

That mournfu' day. • 



22 

But, wae s me, how dare I fin' faut, 

Wi' sic a winsome bardie, 
Wha great an' sma's begun to daut, 

And tak' him by the gardie ; 
It sets na ony lawland chiel, 

Like you to verse or rhyme, 
For few like you can fley the de'il, 

And skelp auld wither'd Time 

On ony day. 

It's fair to praise ilk canty caliati, 

Be he of purest fame, 
If he but tries to raise as Allan, 

Auld Scotia's bonny name ; 
To you, therefore, in humble rhyme, 

Better 1 camia gi'e, 
And tho' it's but a swatch of thine, 

Accept these lines frae me, 

Upo' this day. 

Frae Jock o' Groats to bonny Tweed, 

Frae that e'en to the line, 
In ilka place where Scotsmen bleed, 
There shall your hardship shine; 
' Ilk honest chiel wha reads your buick, 
Will there aye meet a brither, 
He lang may seek and lang will look, 
Ere he ft n' sic anither 

On ony day. 

Feart that my cruicket verse should spairge 

Some wark of wordie mak', 
I'se nae mair o' this head enlarge, 

But now my farewell tak' ; 
Lang may you live, lang may you write, 

And sing like English Weischell, 
This prayer I do myself indite, 

From yours still, A M- . 

This very day. 



No. XXXVIII. 
FROM MR J. RAMSAY, 



REVEREND W. YOUNG, AT 
ERSKINE. 

dear sir, Ochtertijre, 22d October, 1787. 
Allow me to introduce Mr Burns, whose 
poems, I dare say, have given you much pli 
sure. Upon a personal acquaintance, I doubt 
not, you will relish the man as much as his 
works, in which there is a rich vein of intel- 
lectual ore. He has heard some of our High- 
land luinigs or songs played, which delighted 
him so much that he has made words to one 
or two of them, which will render these more 
popular. As he has thought of being in your 
quarter, I am persuaded you will not think it 
labour lost to indulge the poet of nature with 
a sample of those sweet artless melodies, which 
only want to be married (in Milton's phrase) 
to congenial words. I wish we could conjure 
Cp the ghost of Joseph M'D. to infuse into 



BURNS' WORKS. 



our bard a portion of his enthusiasm for those 
neglected airs, which do not suit the fastidious 
musicians of the present hour. But if it be 
true that Corelli (whom I looked on as the 
Homer of music) is out of date, it is no proof 
of their taste; — this, however, is going out of 
my province. You can show Mr Bums the 
manner of singing these same luinigs ; and, if 
he can humour it in words, I do not despair of 
seeing one of them sung upon the stage, in the 
original style, round a napkin. 

I am very sorry we are likely to meet so 
seldom in this neighbourhood. It is one of 
the greatest drawbacks that attends obscurity, 
that one has so few opportunities of cultivating 
acquaintances at a distance. I hope, however, 
some time or other, to have the pleasure of 
beating up your quarters at Erskine, and of 
hauling you away to Paisley, &c. ; meanwhile 
I beg to be remembered to Messrs Boog and 
Mylne. 

If Mr B. goes by , give him a billet on 

our friend Mr Stuart, who, I presume, does 
not dread the frown of his diocesan. 
I am, Dear Sir, 
Your most obedient humble servant, 
J. RAMSAY 



No. XXXIX. 

FROM MR RAMSAY, 

TO DR BLACKLOCK. 

dear sir, Ochtertyre, 21th October, 1787. 
I received yours by Mr Burns, and give you 
many thanks for giving me an opportunity of 
conversing with a man of his calibre. He 
will, I doubt not, let you know what passed 
between us on the subject of my hints, to which 
I have made additions, in a letter sent him 
t'other day to your care. 



You may tell Mr Burns, when you see him, 
that Colonel Edmonstoune told me t'other day, 
that his cousin, Colonel George Crawford, 
was no poet, but a great singer of songs ; but 
that his eldest brother Robert (by a former 
marriage) bad a great turn that way, having 
written the words of The Bush aboon Traquair, 
and Tweedside. That the Mary to whom it 
was addressed was Mary Stewart of the Cas- 
tlemilk family, afterwards wife of Mr John 
Relches. The Colonel never saw Robert 
Crawford, though he was at his burial fifty- 
five years ago. He was a pretty young man, 
and had lived long in France. Lady Anker- 
ville is his niece, and may know more of his 
poetical vein. An epitaph-monger like me 
might moralize upon the vanity of life, and the 
vanity of those sweet effusions — Bui I have 



hardly room to offer my best coniiliments to 
Mrs Blackloek ; and I am, 
Dear Doctor, 
Your most obedient humble servant, 
J. RAMSAY. 



FROM MR JOHN MURDOCH. 

MY dear sir, London, 28tk October, 1787. 
As my friend, Mr Brown, is going from this 
place to your neighbourhood, I embrace the 
opportunity of telling you that I am yet alive, 
tolerably well, and always in expectation of 
being better. By the much-valued letters be- 
fore me, 1 see that it was my duty to have 
given you this intelligence about three years 
and nine months ago ; and have nothing to 
allege as an excuse but that we poor, busy, 
bustling bodies in London, are so much taken 
up with the various pursuits in which we are 
here engaged, that we seldom think of any 
person, creature, place, or thing, that is absent. 
But this is not altogether the case with me ; 
for I often think of you, and Hornie, and Rus- 
set, and an unfathomed depth, and lowan brutt- 
stane, all in the same minute, although you and 
they are (as I suppose) at a considerable dis- 
tance. I flatter myself, however, with the 
pleasing thought, that you and I shall meet 
some time or other either in Scotland or Eng- 
land. If ever you come hither, you will have 
the satisfaction of seeing your poems relished 
by the Caledonians in London, full as much as 
they can be by those of Edinburgh. We 
frequently repeat some of your verses in our 
Caledonian society; and you may believe, that 
I am not a little vain that I have had some 
share in cultivating such a genius. I was not 
absolutely certain that you were the author, 
till a few days ago, when I made a visit to 
Mrs Hill, Dr M' Comb's eldest daughter, who 
lives in town, and who told me that she was 
informed of it by a letter from her sister in 
Edinburgh, with whom you had been in com- 
pany when ia that capital. 

Pray let me know if you have any intention 
of visiting this huge, overgrown metropolis ? 
It would afford matter for a large poem. Here 
you would have an opportunity of indulging 
your vein in the study of mankind, perhaps to 
a greater degree than in any city upon the face 
of the globe ; for the inhabitants of London, 
as you know, are a collection of all nations, 
kindreds, and tongues, who make it, as it were, 
the centre of tht ' 



Present my respectful compliments to _Irs 
Burns, to my dear friend Gilbert, and all the 
rest of her amiable children. May the Father 
of the universe bless you all with those princi- 



'ERS. 23 

pies and dispositions that the best of parents 
took such uncommon pains to instil into your 
minds from your earliest infancy ' May you 
live as he did ! if you do, you can never be 
unhappy. I feel myself grown serious all at 
once, and affected in a manner I cannot de- 
scribe. I shall only add, that it is one of the 
greatest pleasures I promise myself before 1 
die, that of seeing the family of a man whose 
memory I revere more than that of any person 
that ever I was acquainted with. 
I am, my dear Friend, 

Yours sincerely, 

JOHN MURDOCH. 



FROM MR . 

sir, Gordon Castle, 3\st October, 1767. 

If you were not sensible of your fault as well 
as of your loss in leaving this place so sud- 
denly, I should condemn you to starve upon 
cuuld hail for ae towmont at least ; and as for 
Dick Latine,* your travelling companion, 
without banning him wi' a' the curses contain- 
ed in your letter, (which he'll no value a baw- 
bee,) I should give him nought but Stra'bogie 
castochs to chew for sax ouks, or aye until he 
was as sensible of his error as you seem to be 
of yours. 



Your song I showed without producing the 
author ; and it was judged by the Duchess to 
be the production of Dr Beattie. I sent a 
copy of it, by her Grace's desire, to a Mrs 
M'Pherson in Badenoch, who sings Morag 
and all other Gaelic songs in great perfection. 
I have recorded it likewise, by Lady Char- 
lotte's desire, in a book belonging to her lady- 
ship, where it is in company with a great many 
other poems and verses, some of the writers of 
which are no less eminent for their political 
than for their poetical abilities. When the 
Duchess was informed that you were the author 
she wished you had written the verses in Seotch. 

Any letter directed to me here will come to 
hand safely, and, if sent under the Duke's 
cover, it will likewise come free ; that is, aj 
long as the Duke is in this country. 

I am, Sir, yours sincerely. 



FROM THE REV. JOHN SKINNER 

SIR, Linshart, \ith November, 17S7. 

Your kind return without date, but of post- 



BURNS' WORKS. 



mark October 25th, ernieto my hand only this 
day; and, to testify my punctuality to my 
poetic engagement, I sit down immediately to 
answer it in kind. Your acknowledgment of 
my poor but just encomiums on your surpris- 
ing genius, and your opinion of my rhyming 
excursions, are both, I think, by far too high. 
The difference between our two tracts of edu- 
cation and the ways of life is entirely in your 
Favour, and gives you the preference every 
manner of way. I know a classical education 
will not create a versifying taste, hut it migh- 
tily improves and assists it ; and though, where 
both these meet, there may sometimes be 
ground for approbation, yet where taste appears 
single, as it were, and neither cramped nor 
supported by acquisition, I will always sustain 
the justice of its prior claim to applause. A 
small portion of taste, this way, I have had 
almost from childhood, especially in the old 
Scottish dialect ; and it is as old a thing as I 
remember, my fondness for Christ's kirk &' the 
Green, which I had by heart ere I was twelve 
years of age, and which, some years ago, I at- 
tempted to turn into Latin verse. While I 
was young, I dabbled a good deal in these 
things ; but on getting the black gown, I gave 
it pretty much over, till my daughters grew up, 
who, being all good singers, plagued me for 
words to some of their favourite tunes, and so 
extorted these effusions, which have made a 
public appearance beyond my expectation, and 
contrary to my intentions, at the same time 
that I hope there is nothing to be found ii 
them uncharacteristic, or unbecoming th< 
Cloth, which I would always wish to see re 
spected. 

As to the assistance you propose from me 
in the undertaking you are engaged in,* I am 
sorry I cannot give it so far as J could wish, 
and you, perhaps, expect. My daughters, who 
were my only intelligencers, are all /oris fa- 
miliale, and the old woman their mother has 
lost that taste. There are two from my own 
pen, which I might give you, if worth the 
while. One to the old Scotch tune of Dum- 
barton's Drums. 

The other perhaps you have met with, as 
your noble friend the Duchess has, I am told, 
heard of it. It was squeezed out of me by a 
brother parson in her neighbourhood, to ac- 
commodate a new Highland reel for the Mar- 
quis's birth-day, to the stanza of 

" Tune your fiddles, tune them sweetly." &c. 

If this last answer your purpose, you may 
have it from a brother of mine, Mr James 
Skinner, writer in Edinburgh, who, I believe, 
can give the music too. 

There is another humorous thing, I have 
heard said to be done by the Catholic priest 
Geddes, and which hit my taste much : 



" There was a wee wifeikie was coming frae the 
fair, 
Had gotten a little drapikie, which bred h«r 

meikle care ; 
It took upo' the wine's heart, and she began U, 

spew, 
And quo' the wee wifeikie, I wish I hinna fou, 
- I wish, &c. &c." 

I have heard of another new composition, by 
a young ploughman of my acquaintance, that I 
am vastly pleased with, to the tune of The 
humours of Glen, which I fear won't do, as the 
music, I am told, is of Irish original. I .have 
mentioned these, such as they are, to show my 
readiness to oblige you, and to contribute my 
mite, if I could, to the patriotic work you have 
in hand, and which I wish all success to. You 
have only to notify your mind, and what you 
want of the above shall be sent you. 

Meantime, while you are thus publicly, I 
may say, employed, do not sheath your own ' 
proper and piercing weapon. From what I 
have seen of yours already, I am inclined to 
hope for much good. One lesson of virtue 
and morality, delivered in your amusing style, 
and from such as you, will operate more than 
dozens would do from such as me, who shall " 
be told it is our employment, and be never 
more minded : whereas, from a pen like yours, 
as being one of the many, what comes will be 
admired. Admiration wijl produce regard, 
and regard will leave an impression, especially 
when example goes along. 

Now bimia saying I'm ill bred, 
Klse, by my troth, I'll not be glad 
For cadgers, ye have heard it said, 

And sic like fry, 
Maun aye be harland in their trade, 

And sae maun I. 

Wishing you from my poet-pen, all success, 
and in my other character, all happiness and 
heavenly direction, 

I remain, with esteem, 

Your sincere friend, 

JOHN SKINNER, 



No. XL III. 

FROM MRS * . 

SI r, K k Castle, 30th November, 1787. 

I hope you will do me the justice to believe, 
that it was no defect in gratitude for your 
punctual performance of your parting promise, 
that has made me so long in acknowledging it, 
but merely the difficulty I had in getting the 
Highland songs you wished to have, accurately 
noted ; they are at last inclosed : but how 
shall I convey along with them those graces 
rhey acquired from the melodious voice of one 
nf the fair spirits of the hill of Kildrummie ! 

• Mrs Ross of Kilravock, Nairnshire. 



These I mn>t leave to your imagination to 
supply. It lias powers sufficient to transport 
you to her side, to recall her accents, and to 
make them still vibrate in the ears of memory. 
To her I am indebted for getting the inclosed 
notes. They are clothed with " thoughts that 
breathe, and words that burn." These, how- 
ever, being in an unknown tongue to you, you 
must again have recourse to that same fertile 
imagination of yours to interpret them, and 
suppose a lover's description of the beauties of 
on adored mistress — why did I say unknown ? 
The language of love is an universal one, that 
6eems to have escaped the confusion of Babel, 
end to be understood by all nations. 

I rejoice to find that you were pleased with 
bo many things, persons, and places in your 
northern tour, because it leads me to hope you 
may be induced to revisit them again. That 

the old castle of K k, and its inhabitants, 

were amongst these, adds to my satisfaction. 
I am even vain enough to admit your very 
flattering application of the line of Addison's ; 
at any rate, allow me to believe that " friend- 
ship will maintain the ground she has occupied" 
in both our hearts, in spite of absence, and 
that, when we do meet, it will be as acquain- 
tance of a score of years standing; and on this 
footing, consider me as interested in the future 
course of your fame, so splendidly commenced. 
Any communications of the progress of your 
muse will be received with great gratitude, and 
the fire of your genius will have power to warm, 
even us, frozen sisters of the north. 

The friends of K k and K e 

unite in cordial regards to you. When you 
incline to figure either in your idea, suppose 
some of us reading your poems, and some of 
us singing your songs, and my little Hugh 
looking at your picture, and you'll seldom be 
wrong. We remember Mr N. with as much 
good will as we do any body, who hurried Mr 
Burns from us. 

Farewell, sir, I can only contribute the 
widoufs mile to the esteem and admiration ex- 
cited by your merits and genius, but this I give 
as she did, with all my heart — being sincerely 
yours, 

E. R. 



TO DALRYMPLE, ESQ. OF 

ORANGEFIELD. 

dear sir, Edinburgh, 1787. 

I suppose the devil is so elated with his suc- 
-ess with you, that he is determined by a coup 
de main to complete his purposes on you all at 
once, in making you a poet. I broke open the 
letter you sent me ; hummed over the rhymes ; 
and, as I saw they were extempore, said to 
myself they were very well : but when I saw 
«t the bottom a name that I shall ever value 



'ERS. 25 

with grateful respect, " I papit wide hut nats 
thing spak." I was nearly as much struck as 
the friends of Job, of affliction-bearing me- 
mory, when they sat down with him seven days 
and seven nights, and spake not a word. 



I am naturally of a superstitious cast, and as 
soon as my wonder-scared imagination regained 
its consciousness and resumed its functions, I 
cast about what this mania of yours might 
portend. My foreboding ideas had the wide 
stretch of possibility ; and several events, great 
in their magnitude, and important in their con- 
sequences, occurred to my fancy. The down- 
fal of the conclave, or the crushing of the cork 

rumps; a ducal coronet to Lord George G 

and the protestant interest ; or Saint Peter's 
keys to 

You want to know how I come on. I am 
just in statu quo, or, not to insult a gentleman 
with my Latin, " in auld use and wont." The 
noble Earl of Glencairn took me by the hand 
to-day, and interested himself in my concerns, 
with a goodness like that benevolent being, 
whose image he so richly bears. He is a 
stronger proof of the immortality of the soul, 
than any that philosophy ever produced. A 
mind like his can never die. Let the worship, 
ful squire, H. L. or the reverend Mass J. M. 
go into their primitive nothing. At best they 
are but ill-digested lumps of chaos, only one of 
them strongly tinged with bituminous particles 
and sulphureous effluvia. But my noble pa- 
tron, eternal as the heroic swell of magnani- 
mity, and the generous throb of benevolence, 
shall look on with princely eye at " the war of 
elements, the wreck of matter, and the crash 
of worlds." 



TO MRS DUNLOP. 

Edinburgh, 21st January, 1788. 
After six weeks' confinement, I am beginning 
to walk across the room. They have been six 
horrible weeks ; anguish and low spirits made 
me unfit to read, write, or think. 

I have a hundred times wished that one 
could resign life as an officer resigns a commis- 
sion : for I would not take in any poor, igno. 
rant wretch, by selling out. Lately I was 
sixpenny private ; and, God knows, a miserable 
soldier enough ; now I march to the campaign, 
a starving cadet : a little more conspicuouslj 
wretched. 

I am ashamed of all this ; for though I da 
want bravery for the warfare of life, I could 
wish, like some other soldiers, to have as much 
fortitude or cunning as to dissemble or conceal 
my cowardice. 

As soon as I can bear the journey, which 



26 



BURNS' WORKS. 



will bis, I suppose, about the middle of next 
week, I leave Edinburgh, and soon after I 
shall pay my grateful duty at Dunlop-house. 



EXTRACT OF A LETTEa 

TO THE SAME. 

Edinburgh, 12th February, 1788. 
Some things, in your late letters, hurt me : not 
that you say them, but that you mistake vie. 
Religion, my honoured madam, has not only 
been all my life my chief dependence, but my 
dearest enjoyment. I have indeed been the 
luckless victim of wayward follies j but, alas ! 
I have ever been " more fool than knave." 
A mathematician without religion, is a proba- 
ble character ; an irreligious poet, is a monster. 



TO A LADY. 



madam, Mossijiel, 7th March, 1788. 

The last paragraph in yours of the 30th Fe- 
bruary affected me most, so I shall begin my 
answer where you ended your letter. That 1 
am often a sinner with any little wit 1 have, 1 
do confess : but I have taxed my recollection 
to no purpose, to find out when it was em- 
ployed against you. I hate an ungenerous 
sarcasm, a great deal worse than I do the 
devil ; at least as Milton describes him ; and 
though J may be rascally enough to be some- 
times guilty of it myself, I cannot endure it in 
others. You, my honoured friend, who cannot 
appear in any light, but you are sure of being 
respectable — you can afford to pass by an oc- 
casion to display your wit, because you may 
depend for fame on your sense ; or if you 
choose to be silent, you know you can rely on 
the gratitude of many and the esteem of all ; 
but God help us who are wits or witlings by 
profession, if we stand not for fame there, we 
sink unsupported ! 

I am highly flattered by the news you tell 
me of Coila. * I may say to the fair painter 
who does me so much honour, as Dr Beattie 
says to Ross the poet, of his Muse Scotia, 
from which, by the bye, I took the idea of 
Coila : (' Tis a poem of Beattie's in the Scots 
dialect, which perhaps you have never seen.) 

" Ye shak your head, but o' my fegs, 
Ye've set auld Scotia on her legs : 



a from the descriptio 



Lang had she lien wi* buffe and flegs, 
Bombaz'd and dizzie, 

Her fiddle wanted strings and pegs, 

Waes me, poor hizzie", 



No. XLVIIL 
TO MR ROBERT CLEGHORN 

Mauchline, 31st March, 1788. 
Yesterday, my dear sir, as I was riding 
through a track of melancholy joyless muirs, 
between Galloway and Ayrshire, it being Sun- 
day, I turned my thoughts to psalms, and 
hymns, and spiritual songs; and your favourite 
air, Captain O'Kean, coming at length in my 
head, I tried these words to it. You will see 
that the first part of the tune must be repeated. * 

I am tolerably pleased with these verses, 
but as I have only a sketch of the tune, I leave 
it with you to try if they suit the measure of 
the music. 

I am so harassed with care and anxiety, 
about this farming project of mine, that my 
muse has degenerated into the veriest prose- 
wench that ever picked cinders, or followed a 
tinker. When I am fairly got into the routine 
of business, I shall trouble you with a longer 
epistle ; perhaps with some queries respecting 
farming ; at present, the world sits such a load 
on my mind, that it has effaced almost every 
trace of the in me. 

My very best compliments, and good wishes 
to Mrs Cleghorn. 



No. XLIX. 
FROM MR ROBERT CLEGHORN. 

Saughton Mills, 27th April, 1788. 

MY DEAR BROTHER FARMER, 

I was favoured with your very kind letter of 
the 31st ult. and consider myself greatly obliged 
to you, for your attention in sending me the 
song to my favourite air, Captain G'Kean. 
The words delight me much; they fit the tune 
to a hair. I wish you would send me a verse 
or two more ; and if you have no objection, I 
would have it in the Jacobite style. Suppose 
it should be sung after the fatal field of Cullo- 
den by the unfortunate Charles: Tenducci 
personates the lovely Mary Stuart in the song 
Queen Mary's Lamentation. — Why may not I 
sing in the person of her great-great-greafi 
grandson ?f 



* Here the bard gives the first stanza of the Chetc 
tier's Lament. 

f Our poet took this advice. The whole of this beail. 
tiful song, as it was afterwards finished, is below :— 



Any skill I have in country business you 
may truly command. Situation, soil, customs 
of countries may vary from each other, but 
Farmer Attention is a good farmer in every 
place. I beg to hear from you soon. Mrs 
Cleghom joins me in best compliments. 

J am, in the most comprehensive sense of 
the word, your very sincere friend, 

ROBERT CLEGHORN. 



No. L. 
TO MRS DUNLOP. 

madam, Mauchline, 2Qth April, 1788. 

Your powers of reprehension must be great 
indeed, as I assure you they made my heart 
ache with penitential pangs, even though 1 
was really not guilty. As I commence farmer 
at Whitsunday, you will easily guess I must 
be pretty busy ; but that is not all. As I got 
the offer of the excise business without solici- 
tation; and as it costs me only six months' 
attendance for instructions, to entitle me to a 
commission ; which commission lies by me, 
and at any future period, on my simple peti- 
tion, can be resumed ; I thought five and thirty 
pounds a-year was no bad dernier resort for a 
poor poet, if fortune in her jade tricks should 
kick him down from the little eminence to 
which she has lately helped him up. 

For this reason, I am at present attending 
these instructions, to have them completed 
before Whitsunday. Still, madam, I prepared 
with the sincerest pleasure to meet you at the 
Mount, and came to my brother's on Saturday 
night, to set out on Sunday; but for some 
nights preceding I had slept in an apartment, 
where the force of the winds and rain was only 
mitigated by being sifted through numberless 
apertures in the windows, walls, &c. In con- 
sequence I was on Sunday, Monday, and part 
of Tuesday unable to stir out of bed, with all 
the miserable effects of a violent cold. 

You see, madam, the truth of the French 
maxim, Le vrai n'est pas toujours le vrai-sem- 
blable ; your last was so full of expostulation, 



THE CHEVALIERS LAMENT. 
The small birds rejoice in the green leaves returning, 
The murmuring streamlet winds clear thro* the vale ; 
The hawthorn trees blow in the dews of the morning, 
And wild scatter'd cowslips bedeck the green dale : 

But what can give pleasure, or what can seem fair, 
While the lingering moments are number'd by care ? 
No flowers gaily springing, nor birds sweetly singing, 
Can soothe the sad bosom of joyless despair. 

The deed that I dared could it merit their malice 

A king and a father to place on his throne ? 

HiB right are these hills, and his rig-lit are these valleys, 

Where the wild beasts find shelter, but I can find none. 

But 'tis not my sufferings thus wretched, forlorn, 
My brave gallant friends, tis your ruin I mourn ; 
Your deeds proved so loyal, in hot bloody trial, 
Alas! can 1 make you no sweeter return I 



'ERS. 27 

and was something so like the language of an 
offended friend, that I began to tremble for a 
correspondence, which I had with grateful 
pleasure set down as one of the greatest enjoy- 
ments of my future life. 



Your books have delighted me ; Virgil, Dry. 
den, and Tasso, were all equal strangers to me ;. 
but of this more at large in my next. 



No. LI. 

FROM THE REV. JOHN SKINNER. 

dear si a, Linshart, 28th April, 1788. 
I received your last, with the curious present 
you have favoured me with, and would have 
made proper acknowledgments before now, but 
that I have been necessarily engaged in matters 
of a different complexion. And now that I 
have got a little respite, I make use of it to 
thank you for this valuable instance of your 
good will, and to assure you that, with the sin- 
cere heart of a true Scotsman, I highly esteem 
both the gift and the giver : as a small testi- 
mony of which I have herewith sent yeu for 
your amusement (and in a form which I hope 
you will excuse for saving postage) the two 
songs I wrote about to you already. Charming 
Nancy is the real production of genius in a 
ploughman of twenty years of age at the time 
of its appearing, with no more education than 
what he picked up at an old farmer-grandfa- 
ther's fire-side, though now, by the strength of 
natural parts, he is clerk to a thriving bleach- 
field in the neighbourhood. And I doubt not 
but you will find in it a simplicity and delicacy^ 
with some turns of humour, that will please 
one of your taste ; at least it pleased me when 
I first saw it, if that can be any recommenda- 
tion to it The other is entirely descriptive 
of my own sentiments, and you may make use 
of one or both as you shall see good.* 



• CHARMING NANCY. 

A SONG, BY A BUCHAN PLOUGHMAN. 

Tomb—" Humours of Glen." 

Some sing of sweet Mally, some sing of fair Nelly, 
And some call sweet Susie me cause of their pain S 

Some love to be jolly, some love melancholy, 
And some love to sing of the Humours of Glen. 

But my only fancy, is my pretty Nancy, 
In venting my passion, I'll sr ' 



■y, 

...v, be plain, 
u asK no more treasure, I'll seek no more pleasure? 
But thee, my dear Nancy, gin thou wert my ain. 

Her beauty delights me, her kindness invites me. 

Her pleasant behaviour is free from all stain ; 
Therefore, my sweet jewel, O do not prove cruel, 

Consent, my dear Nancy, and come be my ain: 
Her carriage is comely, her language is homely, 

Her dress is quite decent when ta'en in the main: 
She's blooming in feature, she's handsome in stature,. 

My charming, dear Nancy, O wert thou my ain! 



28 



BURNS' WORKS 



You will oblige me by presenting my re- 
spects to your host, Mr Cruikshank, who has 
given such high approbation to my poor Lati- 
nity ; yon may let him know, that as I have 



Like Phcebus adorning the fair ruddy morning-, 

Her bright eyes are sparkling, her brows are serene, 
Her yellow lucks shinintr, in beauty combining, 

My charming, sweet Nancy, wilt thou be my ain? 
The whole of her face is with maidenly graces 

Array'd like the gowans, that grow in yon glen, 
•She's well shaped and slender, true hearted and tender, 

My charming, sweet Nancy, O wert thou ray ain ! 



le habitation, 



I'll seek through the nation for some namtanon, 

To shelter my dear from the cold, snow, and rail 
With songs to my deary, I'll keep her aye cheery, 

My charming, sweet Nancy, gin thou wert my ai 
1*11 work at my calling to furnish thy dwelling, 

With ev'ry thing needful thy life to sustain; 
Thou shalt not sit single, but by a clear ingle, 

I'll marrow thee, Nancy, when thou art my ain. 



I'll make true affection the constant direction 

Of loving my Nancy while life doth remain: 
Tho' youth will be wasting, true love shall be lasting, 

My charming, sweet Nancy, gin thou wert my ain. 
But what if my Nancy should alter her fancy, 

To favour another be forward and fain, 
] will not compel her, but plainly I'll tell her, 

Begone thou false Nancy, thou'se ne'er be my ain. 



THE OLD MAN'S SONG. 
BY THE REVEREND J. SKINNER. 



O! why should old age so much wound us? O 
There is nothing in't all to confound us, O; 

For how happy now am I, 

With my old wife sitting by, 
And our bairns, and our oes all around us, O t 

We began in the world wi* naething, O, 
And we've jogg'd on, and toil'd for the ae' thing, O ; 
We made use of what we had, 
And our thankful hearts were glad, 
When we got the bit meat and the claithing, O. 

We have lived all our lifetime contented, O, 
Since the day we became first acquainted, O : 

It's true we've been but poor, 

And we are so to this hour, 
Yet we never pined nor lamented, O. 

We ne'er thought of schemes to be wealthy, O, 
By ways that were cunning or stealthy, O, 

But we always had the bliss, 

And what farther could we wiss, 
To be pleased wi' ourselves, and be healthy, O. 

What tho' we canna boast of our guineas, O, 
We have plenty of Jockies, and Jeanies, O, 

And these, I am certain, are 

More desirable by far, 
Than a pock full of poor yellow sleenies, O. 

We have seen many a wonder and ferly, O. 
Of changes that almost are yearly, O, 

Among rich folk, up and down, 

Both in country and in town, 
Who now live but scrimply, and barely, O. 

Then why should people brag of prosperity, O ? 
A straiten'd life we see is no raiity, O ; 

Indeed we've been in want, 

And our living been but scant, 
Yet we never were reduced to need charity, O. 

In this house we first came together, O, 
Where we've long been a Father and Mither, O. 

And tho' not of stone andyime, 

It will last us a' our time, 
■Kni I hope we shall never need anither, O. 



likewise been a dabbler in Latin poetry, I nava 
two things that I would, if he desires it, sub- 
mit not to his judgment, but to his amusement : 
the one, a translation of Christ's Kirk o* the 
Green, printed at Aberdeen some years ago ; 
the other Batrachomyomachia Hotneri Latini* 
versibus cum additamentis, given in lately to 
Chalmers, to print if he pleases. Mr C. will 
know Seria non semper delectant, nonjoca sem- 
per. Semper delectant seria mixta jocis. 

I have just room to repeat compliments and 
good wishes from, 

Sir, your humble servant, 

JOHN SKINNER. 



TO PROFESSOR DUGALD 
STEWART. 

sir, Mauchline, 3d May, 1787. 

I enclose you one or two more of my baga- 
telles. If the fervent wishes of honest grati- 
tude have any influence with that great, un- 
known Being, who frames the chain of causes 
and events ; prosperity and happiness will 
attend your visit to the Continent, and return 
you safe to your native shore. 

Wherever I am, allow me, sir, to claim it as 
my privilege, to acquaint you with my progress 
in my trade of rhymes ; as I am sure I could 
say it with truth, that, next to my little fame, 
and the having it in my power to make life 
more comfortable to those whom nature has 
made dear to me, I shall ever regard your 
countenance, your patronage, your friendly good 
offices, as the most valued consequence of my 
late success in life. 



EXTRACT OF A LETTER 

TO MRS D U N L O P. 

MADAM, Mauchline ith May, 1788. 

Dryden's Virgil has delighted me. I do not 
know whether the critics will agree with me, 
but the Georgics are to me by far the best of 
Virgil. It is indeed a species of writing en- 
tirely new to me ; and has filled my head with 
a thousand fancies of emulation ; but, alas ! 
when I read the Georgics, and then survey my 
own powers, 'tis like the idea of a Shetland 

And when we leave this habitation, O, 
We'll depart with a good commendation, O, 

We'll go hand in hand, I wiss, 

To a better house than this, 
To make room for the next generation, O. 

Then why should old age so much wound us, O f 
There is nothing in it all to confound us, O ; 

For how happy now am I, 

With my auld wife sitting by, 
And our bairns and our oes all around us, O. 



Soney, drawn up by the side of a thorough-bred 
unter, to start for the plate. I own I am 
disappointed in the JEneid. Faultless correct- 
ness may please, and does highly please the 
lettered critic; but to that awful character I 
have not the most distant pretensions. I do 
not know whether I do not hazard my preten- 
sions to be a critic of any kind, when I say 
that I think Virgil, in many instances, a servile 
copier of Homer. If I had the Odyssey by 
me, I could parallel many passages where Vir- 
gil has evidently copied, but by no means im- 
proved Homer. Nor can I think there is any 
thing of this owing to the translators ; for, 
from every thing I have seen of Dryden, I 
think him, in genius and fluency of language, 
Pope's master. I have not perused Tasso 
enough to form an opinion : in some future 
letter, you shall have my ideas of him ; though 
I am conscious my criticisms must be very 
inaccurate and imperfect, as there I have ever 
felt and lamented my want of learning most 



No. LIV. 

TO THE SAME. 

madam, 21th May, 1788. 

I have been torturing my philosophy to no 
purpose, to account for that kind partiality of 

yours, which, unlike 

, has followed me in my 

return to the shade of life, with assiduous be- 
nevolence. Often did I regret in the fleeting 
hours of my late will-o'-wisp appearance, that 
"here I had no continuing city;" and but for 
the consolation of a few solid guineas, could 
almost lament the time that a momentary ac- 
quaintance with wealth and splendour put me 
so much out of conceit, with the sworn com- 
panions of my road through life, insignificance 
and poverty. 



There are few circumstances relating to the 
unequal distribution of the good things of this 
life, that give me more vexation (I mean in 
what J see around me) than the importance the 
opulent bestow on their trifling family affairs, 
compared with the very same things on the con- 
tracted scale of a cottage. Last afternoon I 
had the honour to spend an hour or two at a 
good woman's fireside, where the planks that 
composed the floor were decorated with a 
splendid carpet, and the gay table sparkled 
with silver and china. 'Tis now about term- 
day, and there has been a revolution among 
those creatures, who, though in appearance 
partakers, and equally noble partakers of the 
fame nature with madame ; are from time to 
time, their nerves, their sinews, their health, 
strength, wisdom, experience, genius, time, 
nay, a good part of their very thoughts, sold 



fERS. oc> 

for months and years 

, not only to the necessities, 

the conveniencies, but the caprices of the im- 
portant few. • We talked of the insignificant 
creatures ; nay, notwithstanding their general 
stupidity and rascality, did some of the poor 
devils the honour to commend them. But 
light be the turf upon his breast, who taught 
" Reverence thyself." We looked down on 
the unpolished wretches, their impertinent 
wives and clouterly brats, as the lordly bull 
does on the little dirty ant-hill, whose puny 
inhabitants he crushes in the carelessness of his 
ramble, or tosses in air in the wantonness of 
his pride. 



No. LV. 
TO THE SAME. 



AT MR DUNLOP'S, HADDINGTON. 

Ellisland, 1 3th June, 1788. 
" Where'er 1 roam, whatever realms I see, 
My heart, untravell'd, fondly turns to thee ; 
Still to my friend it turns with ceaseless pain, 
And drags at each remove a lengthen'd chain." 

GOLDSMITH. 

This is the second day, my honoured friend, 
that I have been on my farm. A solitary in- 
mate of an old, smoky spence ; far from every 
object I love, or by whom J am loved ; nor any 
acquaintance older than yesterday, except 
J envy Geddes the old mare I ride on ; while 
uncouth cares, and novel plans, hourly insult 
my awkward ignorance and bashful inexperi- 
ence. There is a foggy atmosphere native to 
my soul in the hour of care, consequently th« 
dreary objects seem larger than the life. Ex- 
treme sensibility, irritated and prejudiced on 
the gloomy side by a series of misfortunes and 
disappointments, at that period of my existence 
when the soul is laying in her cargo of ideas 
for the voyage of life, is, I believe, the princi- 
pal cause of this unhappy frame of mind. 

" The valiant, in himself, what can he suffer? 
Or what need he regard his single woes ?" &c. 

Your surmise, madam, is just; I am indeed 
a husband. 



I found a once much-loved and still much- 
loved female, literally and truly cast out to the 
mercy of the naked (dements, but as I enabled 
her to purchase a shelter; and there is uo 



30 



BURNS' WORKS. 



sporting witli a fellow-creature's happiness or 
misery. 

The most placid good-nature and sweetness 
of disposition : a warm heart, gratefully de- 
voted with all its powers to love me ; vigorous 
health and sprightly cheerfulness, set off to the 
best advantage, by a more than common hand- 
some figure ; these, I think, in a woman, may 
make a good wife, though she should never 
have read a page, but the Scriptures of the Old 
and New Testament, nor have danced in a 
brighter assembly than a penny pay- wedding. 



No. LVI. 
TO MR P. HILL. 

MY DEAR HILL, 

1 shall say nothing at all to your mad present 
— you have so long and often been of impor- 
tant service to me, and I suppose you mean to 
go on conferring obligations until I shall not 
be able to lift up my face before you. In the 
meantime, as Sir Roger de Coverley, because 
it happened to be a cold day in which he made 
his will, ordered his servants great coats for 
mourning, so, because I have been this week 
plagued with an indigestion, I have sent you by 
the carrier a fine old ewe-milk cheese. 

Indigestion is the devil : nay, 'tis the devil 
and all. It besets a man in every one of his 
senses. I lose my appetite at the sight of suc- 
cessful knavery; and sicken to loathing at the 
noise and nonsense of self-important folly. 
When the hollow-hearted wretch takes me by 
the hand, the feeling spoils my dinner ; the 
proud man's wine so offends my palate, that it 
chokes me in the gullet ; and the pidvilis'd, 
feathered, pert coxcomb, is so disgustful in my 
nostril that my stomach turns. 

If ever you have any of these disagreeable 
sensations, let me prescribe for you patience 
and a bit of my cheese. I know that you are 
no niggard of your good things among your 
friends, and some of them are in much need of 
a slice. There in my eye is our friend Smellie, 
a man positively of the first abilities and great- 
est strength of mind, as well as one of the best 
hearts and keenest wits that I have ever met 
with : when you see him, as, alas ! he too is 
smarting at the pinch of distressful circumstan- 
ces, aggravated by the sneer of contumelious 
greatness — a bit of my cheese alone will not 
cure him, but if you add a tankard of brown 
stout, and superadd a magnum of right Oporto, 
you will see his sorrows vanish like the morn- 
ing mist before the summer sun. 

C h, the earliest friend, except my only 

brother, that I have on earth, and one of the 
worthiest fellows that ever any man called by 
the name of friend, if a luncheon of my cheese 
would help f o rid him of some of his supera- 



bundant modesty, you would qo well to give it 
him. 

David* with his Courant comes, too, acrosa 
my recollection, and I beg you will help him 
largely from the said ewe-milk cheese, to en* 
ble him to digest those bedaubing para- 
graphs with which he is eternally larding the 
lean characters of certain great men in a certain 
great town. I grant you the periods are very 
well turned : so, a fresh egg is a very good 
thing ; but when thrown at a man in a pillory 
it does not at all improve his figure, not t<f 
mention the irreparable loss of the egg. 

My facetious friend, D r, I woul& 

wish also to be a partaker ; not to digest his 
spleen, for that he laughs off, but to digest his 
last night's wine at the last field-day of the 
Ciochallan corps, f 

Among our common friends I must not for 
get one of the dearest of them, Cunningham. 
The brutality, insolence, and selfishness of a 
world unworthy of having such a fellow as he 
is in it, I know sticks in his stomach, and if 
you can help him to any thing that will make 
him a little easier on that score, it will be very 
obliging. 

As to honest J S e, he is such a 

contented happy man that I know not what 
can annoy him, except perhaps he may not 
have got the better of a parcel of modest anec- 
dotes which a certain poet gave him one night 
at supper, the last time the said poet was in 
town. 

Though I have mentioned so many men oi 
law, I shall have nothing to do with them 
professedly — the Faculty are beyond my pre- 
scription. As to their clients, that is ■ another 
thing ; God knows they have much to digest ! 

The clergy I pass by; their profundity of 
erudition, and their liberality of sentiment; 
their total want of pride, and their detestation 
of hypocrisy, are so proverbially notorious as 
to place them far, far above either my praise 
or censure. 

I was going to mention a man of worth, 
whom I have the honour to call friend, the 
Laird of Craigdarroch ; but I have spoken to 
the landlord of the King's arms inn here, to 
have, at the next county-meeting, a large ewe- 
milk cheese on the table, for the benefit of the 
Dumfries-shire whigs, to enable them to digest 
the Duke of Queensberry's late political con- 
duct. 

I have just this moment an opportunity of 
a private hand to Edinburgh, as perhaps you 
would not digest double postage. 



TO MRS DUNLOP. 

Mauchline, 2d August, 1788. 

HONOURED MADAM, 

Your kind letter welcomed me yesternight, to 
Ayrshire. I am 'ndeed seriously angry with 
you at the quantum of your luckpenny ; but 
vexed and hurt as I was, I could not help 
laughing very heartily at the noble lord's apo- 
logy for the missed napkin. 

I would write you from Nithsdale, and give 
you my direction there, but I have scarce an 
opportunity of calling at a post-office once in 
a fortnight. I am six miles from Dumfries, 
am scarcely ever in it myself, and, as yet, have 
little acquaintance in the neighbourhood. Be- 
6ideo, I am now very busy on my farm, build, 
ing a dwelling-house ; as at present I am 
almost an evangelical man in Nithsdale, for I 
have scarce " where to lay my head." 

There are some passages in your last that 
brought tears in my eyes. " The heart know- 
eth its own sor-ows, and a stranger intermed- 
dleth not therewith." The repository of these 
" sorrows of the heart," is a kind of sanctum 
sanctorum t and 'tis only a chosen friend, and 
that too at particular, sacred times, who dares 
enter into them. 



You will excuse this quotation for the sake 
of the author. Instead of entering on this 
subject farther, I shall transcribe you a few 
lines I wrote in a hermitage belonging to a 
gentleman in my Nithsdale neighbourhood. 
They are almost the only favours the muse 
has conferred on me in that country. 

Thou whom chance may hither lead, 
Be thou clad in russet weed, 
Be thou deck'd in silken stole, 
'Grave these maxims on thy soul : 
Life is but a day at most, 
Sprung from night, in darkness lost ; 
Hope not sunshine ev'ry hour ; 
Fear not clouds will ever lour. 

Happiness is but a name, 
Make content and ease thy aim. 
Ambition is a meteor-gleam : 
Fame, an idle restless dream : 
Peace, the tend'rest flow'r of spring ; 
Pleasures, insects on the wing. 
Those that sip the dew alone, 
Make the butterflies thy own ; 
Those that would the bloom devour, 
Crush the locusts, save the flower. 
For the future be prepared, 
Guard wherever thou canst guard ; 
But thy utmost duly done, 
Welcome what thou canst not shun. 
Follies past give thou to air, 
Make their consequence thy care : 



'ERS. 31 

Keep the name of man in mind. 
And dishonour not thy kind. 
Reverence with lowly'heart 
Him whose wond'rous >vork thou art; 
Keep his goodness still in view, 
Thy trust and thy example too. 

Stranger go ! heaven be thy guide ! 
Quod the Beadesman of Nithside. 

Since I am in the way of transcribing, fin 
following were the production of yesterday &9 
J jogged through the wild hills of New Cum- 
nock. I intended inserting them, or something 
like them, in an epistle I am going to write to 
the gentleman on whose friendship my excise 
hopes depend, Mr Graham of Fintry ; one of 
the worthiest and most accomplished gentle- 
men, not only of this country, but I will dare 
to say it, of this age. The following are just 
the first crude thoughts "unhousel'd, unan- 
ointed, unanell'd." 



Pity the tuneful muses' helpless train ; 
Weak, timid landsmen on life's stormy main: 
The world were blest, did bless on them depend ; 
Ah, that " the friendly e'er should want a friend!" 
The little fate bestows they share as soon ; 
Unlike sage, proverb'd, wisdom's hard-wrung 

Let prudence number o'er each sturdy son 
Who life and wisdom at one race begun ; 
Who feel by reason and who give by rule ; 
Instinct's a brute, and sentiment a fool ! 
Who make poor will do wait upon I should ; 
We own they're prudent, but who feels they're 
good? 

Ye wise ones, hence ! ye hurt the social eye ; 
God's image rudely etch'd on base alloy ! 
But come 

Here the muse left me. I am astonished at 
what you tell me of Anthony's writing me. 
I never received it. Poor fellow ! you vex me 
much by telling me that he is unfortunate. I 
shall be in Ayrshire ten days from this date. 
I have just room for an old Roman farewell ' 



No. LVIII. 
TO THE SAME. 

Mauchline, 10th August, 1788. . 

MY MUCH HONOURED FRIEND, 

Yours of the 24-th June is before me. I found 
it, as well as another valued friend — my wife, 
waiting to welcome me to Ayrshire : I met 
both with the sincerest pleasure. 

When I write you, madam, I do not sit 
down to answer every paragraph of yours, by 
echoing every sentiment, like the faithful com- 
mons of Great Britain in parliament assem- 
bled, answering a speech from the best of 
kings ! I express myself in the fulness of mj 



32 



BURNS' WORKS. 



heart, and may perhaps be guilty of neglecting 
Borne of your kind inquiries; but not from 
your very odd reason that I do not read your 
letters. All your epistles for several months 
have cost me nothing, except a swelling throb 
of gratitude, or a deep-felt sentiment of vene- 
ration. 

Mrs Burns, madam, is the identical woman 



When she first found herself " as women wish 
to be who love their lords;" as I loved her 
nearly to distraction, we took steps for a pri- 
vate marriage. Her parents got the hint ; and 
not only forbade me her company and their 
house, but on my rumoured West Indian voy- 
age, got a warrant to put me in jail, till I 
should find security in my about-to-be paternal 
relation. You know my lucky reverse of for- 
tune. On my eclatant return to Mauchline, 
I was made very welcome to visit my girl. 
The usual consequences began to betray her ; 
and as I was at that time laid up a cripple in 
Edinburgh, she was turned, literally turned 
out of doors, and I wrote to a friend to shelter 
her, till my return, when our marrkge was 
declared. Her happiness or misery was in 
my hands, and who could trifle with such a 
deposit ? 



I can easily fancy a more agreeable compa- 
nion for my journey of life, but, upon my 
honour, I have never seen the individual in- 
stance. 



Circumstanced as I am, I could never have 
got a female partner for life, who could have 
entered into my favourite studies, relished my 
favourite authors, &c. without probably en- 
tailing on me, at the same time, expensive 
living, fantastic caprice, perhaps apish affecta- 
tion, with all the other blessed boarding-school 
acquirements, which fpardonnez moi, madamej 
are sometimes to be found among females of 
ihe upper ranks, but almost universally per- 
vade the misses of the would-be-gentry. 



.1 like your way in your church-yard lucu- 
brations. Thoughts that are the spontaneous 
result of accidental situations, either respect- 
ing health, place, or company, have often a 
Strength, and always an originality, that would 
in vain be looked for in fancied circumstances 
and studied paragraphs. For me, I have often 
thought of keeping a letter, in progression, by 
me, to send you when the sheet was written 
out. Now I talk of sheets, I must tell you, 
my reason for writing to you on paper of this 
kind, is my pruriencv of writing to you at 



large. A page of post is on such a dissocia 
narrow-minded scale, that I cannot abide itj 
and double letters, at least in my miscellaneous 
reverie manner, are a monstrous tax in a close 
correspondence. 



TO THE SAME. 

Ellisland, 16th August, 1788. 
I am in a fine disposition, my honoured friend,, 
to send you an elegiac epistle ; and want only 
genius to make it quite Shenstoniaa 



Why siuks my soul beneath each wintry sky ?' 



My increasing cares in this, as yet, strange 
country — gloomy conjectures in the dark vista 
of futurity — consciousness of my own inability 
for the struggle of the world — my broadened 
mark to misfortune in a wife and children : — 
1 could indulge these reflections, till my hu- 
mour should ferment into the most acrid chagrin, 
that would corrode the very thread of life. 

To counterwork these baneful feelings, I " 
have sat down to write to you ; as I declare 
upon my soul I always find that the most 
sovereign balm for my wounded spirit. 

I was yesterday at Mr 's to dinner, for 

the first time. My reception was quite to my 
mind ; from the lady of the house quite flat- 
tering. She sometimes hits on a couplet or 
two, impromptu. She repeated one or two to 
the admiration of all present. My suffrage as 
a professional man was expected : I for once 
went agonizing over the belly of my conscience. 
Pardon me, ye, my adored household gods, 
Independence of Spirit, and Integrity of Soul! 
In the course of conversation, Johnson's Mu- 
sical Museum, a collection of Scottish songs 
with the music, was talked of. We got a 
song on the harpsichord, beginning, 

" Raving winds around her blowing." 

The air was much admired : the lady of the 
house asked me whose were the words— 
" Mine, madam — they are indeed my very 
best verses :" she took not the smallest notice 
of them ! The old Scottish proverb says, 
well, " king's caff is better than ither folks' 
corn." I was going to make a New Testa- 
ment quotation about " casting pearls ;" but 
that would be too virulent, for the lady if ac- 
tually a woman of sense and taste. 



After a!) that has been said on thn other 



■Uc of the question, man is by no means a 
happy creature. I do not speak of the select- 
ed few, favoured by partial heaven, whose 
souls are tuned to gladness amid riches and 
honours, and prudence and wisdom — I -peak 
of the neglected many, whose nerves, whose 
sinews, whose days are sold to the minions ot 
fortune. 

If I thought \ou had never seen it, I would 
trau-cribe for von a <stanzH of an o'd Scottish 
ballad, called The J.,/e •///-/ A.je vf M;,,. I,, 



rERS. ^ 

! call master " For somt such reason. sir. do I 
I now solicit your patronage. You know, I 
| dare say, of an application I lately made to 
your Board to be admitted an officer of excise. 
I have, according to form, been examined by a 
supervisor, and to-day I gave in his c< rrificate, 



K|U. 



if I ! 



Hd, I an 



tions. 



ng fri 



aid 1 shall 
iid. Pro- 
nduct as a man. and fidel ty and 
ition as an officer, 1 rune engage tor; but 
any thing like business, except manual 
ir, J am totally unacquainted. 



I had an old grand-uncle, with whom my 
mother lived a while in her girlish years; the 
good old man, for Mich lie was, was long blind 
ere he died, during which time, his highest 
enjoyment was to sit down and cry, while my 
mother would sing- the simple old song of The 
Life and Aye of Man. 

h is thi- way ol thinking — ir is those me- 
lancholy truths, that make religion so precious 
to the poor, miserable children of men — If it 
is a mere phantom, existing only in the heated 
imagination of enthusiasm, 

*' What truth on earth so precious as the lie !' - 

My idle reasonings sometimes make me r. 
jttle sceptical, hut the necessities of my hear: 
always give the cold philosophiziugs the lie. 
Who looks for the heart weaned from earth ; 
the soul affianced to her God ; the correspon- 
dence fixed with heaven ; the pious supplica- 
tion and devout thanksgiving, constant as the 
vicissitudes of even and morn ; who thinks to 
meet with these in the court, the palace, in 
the glare of public life? No: to find them 
in their precious importance and divine efficacy, 
we must search among the obscure recesses of 
disappointment, affliction, poverty, and distress. 

J am sure, dear madam, you are now more 
than pleased with the length of my letters. J 
return to Ayrshire, middle of next week: and 
it quickens my pace to think that there will 
be a letter from you waiting me ther§. i 
must be here again very soon for my harvest. 



No. i.X. 
TO R. GRAHAM, OF FIN TRY, ESq 



When I had the honour of being introduced 
to you at A thole-house, I did not think .-. 
Boon of asking a favour of you. When Lear, 
in Sbakspeare, asks old Kent, why he wished 
to be in his service, he answers, " Because yoi 
have that in your face which ] could like t< 



j 1 had intended lo have closed my Lu- ap 
' pearance on the stage of life, in the character 
of a countiv fanner; but after discharging 
some filial and fraternal claims, 1 find I could 
only fight for existence in that miserable man- 
ner, which 1 have lived to see throw a venera- 
ble parent into the jaws of a jail ; whence 
death, the poor man's last and often best 
friend, rescued him. 

I know, sir, that to need your goodness is 
to have a claim on it ; may I therefore beg 
your patronage to forward me in this affair, 
till I be appointed to a division, where, by the 
help of rigid economy, I will try tu support 
that independence so dear to my soul, but 
which has been too o'ten so d.stant from my 
situation. 



When nature her great mailer piece designed, 
And i'ram'd her last, best work, the human mind, 
Her eye intent on all the mazy plan, 
She furm'd of various pails the various man. 

Then first she calls the useful many forth; 
Plain plodding industry, and sober worth; 
Thence peasants, farmers, native sons of earth, 
And merchandie's whole genus take their birth" 
Each prudent eit a warm existence finds, 
And all mechanics' many-aproned kinds. 
Soiue other rarer sorts are wanted yet, 
The lead and buoy are needful to the net: 
The caput mortuujii of gross desires 
Makes a mated d, fur mere kniithtsand squires. 
The martial pliu.-j burns is taught to flow, 
She kneads the lumpish philosophic dough. 
Then marks tli* unyielding mass with grave de- 



Law, phy 



Last, she 


ublimi 


The flash! 


ig elei 


The ore 


er'd sv 


Nature we 


11 plca\ 


But ere si 




Half-jest, 


she id 


Some spu 


ny, fiei 


Such as tl 




With and 


ala.-ri 


(Nature i 


my hai 


Her Hog 


irth-ar 


She form: 


the th 



,_p,-.liti, 



a of the poles. 

1 pronounced it very good ; 
one curious labour more. 



34 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Creature, tho' oft the prey of rare and sorrow, 
When bfess'd to-day unmindful of to-morrow. 
A. being form'd t' amuse his graver friends, 
Admired and praised — and there the homage 

ends : 
A mortal quite unfit for fortune's strife, 
Yet oft the sport of all the ills of life ; 
Prone to enjoy each pleasure riches give, 
Yet haply wanting wherewithal to live : 
Longing to wipe each tear, to heal each groan, 
Yet frequent all unheeded in his own. 

But honest Nature is not quite a Turk, 
She laugh'd at first, then felt for her poor work. 
Pitying the propless climber of mankind, 
She cast about a standard tree to find ; 
And to support his helpless woodbine state, 
Attach'd him to the generous truly great. 
A title, and the only one 1 claim, 
To lay strong hold for help on bounteous Graham. 

Pity the tuneful muses' hapless train, 
Weak, timid landmen on life's stormy main! 
Their hearts no selfish stern absorbent stuff, 
That never gives — the' humbly takes enough ; 
The little fate allows, they share as soon, 
Unlike sage, proverb'd, wisdom's hard-wrung 

The world were bless'd, did bless on them de- 
pend, 
Ah, that "the friendly e'er should want a friend !" 
Let prudence number o'er each sturdy son, 
Who life and wisdom at one race begun, 
Who feel by reason, and who give by rule, 
(Instinct's a brute, and sentiment a fool !) 
Who make poor will do wait upon / should — 
We own they're prudent, but who feels they're 

good ? 
Ye wise ones, hence ! ye hurt the social eye ! 
God's image rudely etch'd on base alloy! 
But come ye who the godlike pleasure know, 
Heaven's attribute distinguished — to bestow! 
Whose arms of love would grasp the human 

Come lliou who giv'st with all a courtier's 

Friend of my life, true patron of my rhymes ! 
Prop of my dearest hopes for future times. 
Why shrinks my soul naif blushing, half afraid, 
Backward, abash'd to ask thy friendly aid ? 
i know my need, 1 know thy giving hand, 
I crave tlvy friendship at thy kind command; 
But there are such who court the tuneful nine — 
Heavens, should the branded character be mine! 
Whose verse in manhood's pride sublimely flows, 
Yet vilest reptiles in their begging prose. 
Mark, how their lofty independent spirit, 
Soars on the spurning wing of injured merit! 
Seek not the proofs in private life to find; 
Pit3 r , the best of words, should be but wind ! 
So, to heaven's gates the lark-shrill song ascends, 
But grovelling on the earth the carol ends. 
In all the clam'rous cry of starving want, 
They dun benevolence with shameless front; 
Oblige them, patronize their tinsel lays, 
They persecute you all your future days ! 
Ere my poor soul such deep damnation stain, 
My horny fist assume the plough, again ; 
The pie-ball'd jacket let me patch once more ; 
On eighteen pence a- week I've lived before. 
Though, thanks to heaven, I dare even that last 

shift, 
I trust meantime, my boon is in thy gift: 



That placed by thee, upon the wish'd-for height, 
Where, man and nature fairer in her sight, 
My muse may imp her wing for some sublimer 
flight* 



TO MR P. HILL. 

Mauchline, 1st October, 1788. 
I have Deen here in this country about three 
days, and all that time my chief reading has 
been the " Address to Loch Lomond," you 
were so obliging as to send to me. Were I 
impannelled one of the author's jury, to de- 
termine his criminality respecting the sin of 
poesy, my verdict should be " guilty ! A poet 
of Nature's making !" It is an excellent me- 
thod for improvement, and what I believe 
every poet does, to place some favourite classic 
author, in his own walks of study and compo- 
sition, before him, as a model. Though 
your author had not mentioned the name, I 
could have, at half a glance, guessed his model 
to be Thomson. Will my brother poet for- 
give me, if I venture to hint, that his imitation 
of that immortal bard, is in two or three places 
rather more servile than such a genius as his 
required e. g. 



To soothe the throbbing passions into peace, 

THOMSON. 

I think the Address is, in simplicity, har- 
mony, and elegance of versification, fully equal 
to the Seasons. Like Thomson, too, he has 
looked into nature for himself: you meet with 
no copied description. One particular criti- 
cism I made at first reading : in no one in- 
stance has he said too much. He never flags 
in his progress, but like a true poet of Nature's 
making, kindles in his course. His beginning 
is simple, and modest, as if distrustful of the 
strength of his pinion ; only, I do not altoge- 
ther like 

" Truth, 
The sotd of every song that's nobly great" 

Fiction is the soul of many a song that is 
nobly great Perhaps I am wrong : this may 
be but a prose criticism. Is not the phrase, 
in line 7, page 6, " Great lake," too much vul- 
garized by every-day language, for so sublime 
a poem? 



* This is our poet's first epistle to Graham of Fintry. 
It is not equal to the second, but it contains too much 
of the characteristic vigour of its author to be suppress- 
ed. A little more knowledge of natural history or of 
chemistry was wanted to enable him to execute the 
original conception correctly 



u Great mass of waters, theme for nobler song,' 

is perhaps no emendation. His enumeration 
fit" a comparison with other lakes, is at once 
harmonious and poetic. Every reader's ideas 
m-ist sweep the 



; Winding n 



1 of an liumlmrl miles." 



The perspective that follows mountains blue 
— the imprisoned billows beating in vain— the 
wooded isles — the digression on the yew tree — 
" Ben Lomond's lofty cloud-enveloped head," 
&c. are beautiful. A thunder-storm is a sub- 
ject which has been often tried, yet our poet, 
in his grand picture, has interjected a circum- 
stance, so far as I know, entirely original : 

" The gloom 
Deep seam'd with frequent streaks of moving 
fire." 

In his preface to the storm, " the glens how 
dark between," is noble highland landscape ! 
The " rain plowing the red mould," too, is 
beautifully fancied. Ben Lomond's "lofty, 
pathless top," is a good expression; and the 
surrounding view from it is truly great ; the 

" Silver mist, 
" Beneath the beaming sun," 

is well described ; and here, he has contrived 
to enliven his poem with a little of that passion 
wnich bids fair, I think, to usurp the modern 
muses altogether. I know not how far this 
episode is a beauty upon the whole, but the 
swain's wish to carry "some faint idea of the 
vision bright," to entertain her " partial listen- 
ing ear," is a pretty thought. But, in my 
opinion, the most beautiful passages in the 
whole poem, are the fowls crowding, in wintry 
frosts, to Loch Lomond's " hospitable flood ; " 
their wheeling round, their lighting, mixing, 
diving, &c. and the glorious description of the 
sportsman. This last is equal to any thing in 
the Seasons. The idea of " the floating tribes 
distant se<.m, far glistering to the moon," pro- 
voking his eye as he is obliged to leave them, 
is a noble ray of poetic genius. " The howl- 
ing winds," the " hideous roar" of " the white 
cascades," are all in the same style. 

I forget that while I am thus holding forth, 
with the heedless warmth of an enthusiast, I 
am perhaps tiring you with nonsense. I must, 
however, mention, that the last verse of the 
sixteenth page is one of the most elegant com- 
pliments I have ever seen. I must likewise 
notice that beautiful paragraph, beginning, 
" The gleaming lake," &c. I dare not go into 
the particular beauties of the two last para- 
graphs, but they are admirably fine, and truly 
Ossianic. 

I must beg your pardon for this lengthened 
scrawl. I had no idea of it when I began — I 
should like to know who the author is ; but, 



'ERS. 35 

whoever he be, please present him with my 
grateful thanks for the entertainment he has 
afforded me.» 

A friend of mine desired me to commission 
for him two books, Letters on the Religion es- 
sential to Man, a book you sent me before ; 
and, The World Unmasked, or the Philosopher 
the greatest Cheat. Send me them by the first 
opportunity. The Bible you sent me is truly 
elegant ; I only wish it had been in two vol- 



TO MRS DUNLOP, AT MOREHAM 
MAINS. 

madam, Mauchline, \3th November, 1788. 
I had the very great pleasure of dining at 
Dunlop yesterday. Men are said to flat-te: 
women because they are weak ; if it is so, 
poets must be weaker still ; for Misses R. and 
K. and Miss G. M'K. with their flattering 
attentions, and artful compliments, absolutely 
turned my head. I own they did not lard me 
over as many a poet does his patron . . . 

but they so intoxicated 

me with their sly insinuations and delicate inu- 
endos of compliment, that if it had not been 
for a lucky recollection, how much additional 
weight and lustre your good opinion and friend- 
ship must give me in that circle, I had cec 
tainly looked upon myself as a person of no 
small consequence. I dare not say one word 
how much I was charmed with the inajor'tS 
friendly welcome, elegant manner, and acute 
remark, lest I should be thought to balance 
my orientalisms of applause over against the 
finest queyf in Ayrshire, which he made a 
present of to help and adorn my farm-stock. 
As it was on hallow-day, I am determined 
annually as that day returns, to decorate her 
horns with an ode of gratitude to the family of 
Dunlop. 



So soon as I know of your arrival at Dun- 
lop, I will take the first conveniency to dedi- 
cate a day, or perhaps two, to you and friend- 
ship, under the guarantee of the major'f 
hospitality. There will soon be threescore 
and ten miles of permanent distance between 
us ; and now that your friendship a id friendl- 
correspondence is entwisted with the heart 
strings of my enjoyment of life, I must indulge 
myself in a happy day of " The feast of reason 
and the flow of soul." 



The poem entitled An Address to Look Lomond, is 
„. to be written by a gentleman, now one of the mas- 
ters of the High School at Edinburgh, and the same who 
translated the beautiful story of the Porta, as publUhMi 
in the Bee of Dr Anderson 

f Heifer 
(J2 



BURNS' WORKS 



TO 

sir. November, 8, 1 788. 

Notwithstanding the opprobrious epithets 
with which some of our philosophers and gloomy 
sectaries have branded our nature — the princi- 
ple of universal selfishness, the proneness to 
all evil, they have given us; still, the detes- 
cunon in which inhumanity to the distressed, 
or insolence to the fallen, are held by all man- 
kind, shows that they are not natives of the 

human heart Even the unhappy partner of 

our kind, who is undone — the bitter conse- 
quence of his follies or his crimes — who but 
sympathizes with the miseries of this ruined 
profligate brother? we forget the injuries, and 
feel for the man. 

I went last Wednesday to my parish church, 
most cordially to join in grateful acknowledg- 
ments to the Author of all Good, for the 
consequent blessings of the glorious revolution. 
To that auspicious event we owe no less than 
our liberties civil and religious ; to it we are 
likewise indebted for the present Royal Fami- 
ly, the ruling features of whose administration 
have ever been, mildness to the subject, and 
tenderness of his rights. 

Bred and educated in revolution principles, 
the principles of reason and common sense, it 
could not be any silly political prejudice which 
made my heart revolt at the harsh, abusive 
manner, in which the reverend gentleman 
mentioned the House of Stuart, and which I 
am afraid, was too much the language ot the 
day. We may rejoice sufficiently in our deli- 
verance from past evils, without cruelly raking 
up the ashes of those, whose misfortune it 
was, perhaps as much as their crime, to be the 
authors of those evils ; and we may bless God 
for all his goodness to us as a nation, without, 
at the same time, cursing a few ruined, power- 
loss exiles, who only harboured ide.is, and 
made attempts, that most of us would have 
done, had we been in their situation. 

" The bloody and tyrannical House of 
Stuart," may be said with propriety and jus- 
tice when compared with the present Royal 
Family, and the sentiments of our days ; but 
is there no allowance to be made for the man- 
ners of the times ? Were the royal contempo- 
raries of the Stuarts more attentive to their 
subjects' rights? Might not the epithets of 
" bloody and tyrannical" be, with at least equal 
justice, applied to the House of Tudor, of 
York, or any other of their predecessors ? 

The simple state of the case, sir, seems to 
be this — At that period, the science of govern- 
ment, the knowledge of the true relation be- 
tween king and subject, was, like other sciences 
and other knowledge, just in its infancy, emerg- 
ing from dark ages ot ignorance and barbarity. 

The Stuarts only contended for prerogatives 
which they knew their predecessors enjoyed, 
and which they sau their contemporaries en 



joying ; but these prerogatives were inimical to 
'the happiness of a nation, and the rights of 
subjects. 

In this contest between prince and people, 
the continuence of that litiht of science, which 
had lately dawned over Europe, the monarch 
of France, for example, was victorious over 
the struggling liberties of his people : with us, 
luckily the monarch failed, and his unwarran- 
table pretensions fell a sacrifice to our rights 
and happiness. Whether it was owing to the 
wisdom of leading individuals, or to the just- 
ling of parties, I cannot pretend to determine ; 
but likewise, happily for us, the kingly power 
was shifted into another branch of the family, 
who, as they owed the throne solely to the 
call of a free people, could claim nothing in- 
consistent with the covenanted terms which 
placed them there. 

The Stuarts have been condemned and 
laughed at for the folly and impracticability of 
their attempts in 1715 and 1745. That they 
failed, I bless God ; but cannot join in the 
ridicule against them. Who does not know 
that the abilities or defects of leaders and 
commanders are often hidden until put to the 
touchstone of exigency ; and that there is a 
caprice of fortune, an omnipotence in particu- 
lar accidents and conjunctures of circumstances, 
which exalt us as heroes, or brand us as mad- 
men, just as they are for or against us ? 

Man, Mr Publisher, is a strange, weak, in- 
consistent being. Who would believe, sir, 
that, in this our Augustan age of liberality and 
refin?ment, while we seem so justly sensible 
and jealous of our rights and liberties, and ani- 
mated with such indignation against the very 
memory of those who would have subverted 
them — that a certain people, under our na- 
tional protection, should complain not against 
our monarch and a few favourite advisers, but 
against our whole legislative body, foe 
similar oppression, and almost in the very 
same terms, as our forefathers did of the 
House of Stuart ! I will not, I cannot enter 
into the merits of the cause, but I dare say 
the American Congress, in 1776, will be al- 
lowed to be as able and as enlightened as tke 
English convention was in J 688; and that 
their posterity will celebrate the centenary of 
their deliverance from us, as duly and sincerely 
as we do ours from the oppressive measures of 
the wrong-headed House of Stuart. 

To conclude, sir; let every man who has a 
tear for the many miseries incident to humani- 
ty, feel for a family illustrious as any in Eu- 
rope,-- and unfortunate beyond historic prece- 
dent ; and let every Briton (and particularly 
every Scotsman), who ever looked with reve- 
rential pity on the dotage of a parent, cast a 
veil over the fatal mistakes of the kings of his 
forefathers.* 



• This letter was sent to the publisher of some new 
oapcr, probably the publisher of the Edinburgh Esc 



TO MRS DUNLOP. 
Ellisland, Mth December, 1788. 

MY DEAa HONOURED FRIEND, 

Yours, dated Edinburgh, which I have just 
rend, makes me very unhappy. Almost " blind 
and wholly deaf," are melancholy news of hu- 
man nature; but when told of a much loved 
and honoured friend, they carry misery in the 
sound. Goodness on your part, and gratitude 
on mine, began a tie, which has gradually and 
6trongly en twisted itself among the dearest 
chords of my bosom ; and I tremble at the 
omens of your lare and present ailing habits 
and shattered health. You miscalculate mat- 
ters widely, when you forbid my waiting on 
you, lest it should hurt my worldly concerns. 
My small scale of farming is exceedingly more 
simple and easy than what you have lately 
seen at Moreham Mains. But be that as it 
may, the heart of the man, and the fancy of 
the poet, are the two grand considerations for 
which I live : if miry ridges, and dirty dung- 
hills are to engross the best part of the func- 
tions of my soul immortal, I had better been 
a rook or a magpie at once, and then I should 
not have been plagued with any ideas superior 
to breaking of clods, and picking up grubs : 
not to mention barn-door cocks or mallards, 
creatures with which I could almost exchange 
lives at any time. — If you continue so deaf, I 
am afraid a visit will be no great pleasure to 
either of us ; but if I hear you are got so well 
again as to be able to relish conversation, look 
you to it, madam, for J will make my threaten- 
ings good : I am to be at the new-year-day 
fair of Ayr, and by all that is sacred in the 
world, friend, I will come and see you. 



Your meeting, which you so well describe, 
with your old schoolfellow and friend, was 
truly interesting. Out upon the ways of the 
world ! — They spoil these " social offsprings 
of the heart." Two veterans of the " men of 
the world" would have met, with little more 
heart-workings than two old hacks worn out 
on the road. Apropos, is not the Scotch 
phrase, " Au'ul langsyne," exceedingly expres- 
sive. There is an old song and tune which 
has often thrilled through my soul. You 
know I am an enthusiast in old Scotch songs. I 
shall give you the verses on the other sheet, as 
I suppose Mr Ker will save you the postage.* 

Light be the turf on the breast of the Hea- 
ven-inspired poet who composed this glorious 
fragment ! There is more of the fire of native 
genius in it, than in half a dozen of modern 
English Bacchanalians. Now I am on my 



f Here folio wa the song of Auld lang syne. 



hobby horse, I cannot help inserting two other 
old stanzas, which please me mightily. 

Go fetch to me a pint o' wine, 

An 1 fill it in a silver tassie ; 
That 1 may drink, before 1 go, 

A service to my bonnie lassie : 
The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith; 

Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the ferry, 
The ship rides by the Berwick-law, 

And 1 maun ka'e my bonnie Mary. 

The trumpets sound, the banners fly, 

The glittering spears are ranked ready : 
The shouts o' war are heard afar, 

The battle closes thick and bloody: 
But it's not the roar o' sea or shore, 

Wad make me langer wish to tarry; 
Nor shouts o' war that's heard afar, 

It's leaving thee, my bonnie Mary. 



No. LXV. 
TO A YOUNG LADY. 



madam, December, 1788. 

I understand my very worthy neighbour, 
Mr Riddel, has informed you that I have made 
you the subject of some verses. There is 
something so provoking in the idea of being 
the burden of a ballad, that I do not think 
Job or Moses, though such patterns of pa- 
tience and meekness, could have resisted the 
curiosity to know what that ballad was : so 
my worthy friend has done me a mischief, 
which I dare say he never intended ; and re- 
duced me to the unfortunate alternative of 
leaving your curiosity ungratified, or else dis- 
gusting you with foolish verses, the unfinished 
production of a random moment, and never 
meant to have met your ear. I have heard or 
read somewhere of a gentleman, who had some 
genius, much eccentricity, and very consider- 
able dexterity with his pencil. In the acci- 
dental groups of life into which one is thrown, 
wherever this gentleman met with a character 
in a more than ordinary degree congenial to 
his heart, he used to steal a sketch of the face, 
merely he said, as a nota bene to point out the 
agreeable recollection to his memory. What 
this gentleman's pencil was to him, is my muse 
to me; and the verses I do myself the honour 
to send you are a memento exactly of the same 
kind that he indulged in. 

It may be more owing to the fastidiousness 
of my caprice, than the delicacy of my taste, 
that I am so often tired, disgusted, and hurt 
with the insipidity, affectation, and pride of 
mankind, that when I meet with a person 
" after my own heart," I positively feel what 
an orthodox protestant would call a species of 
idolatry which acts on my fancy like inspiration, 
and I can no more desist rhyming or., the im- 



38 



BURNS' WORKS. 



pulse, than an JEolian harp can refuse its 
tones to the streaming air. A distich or two 
would be the consequence, though the object 
which hit my fancy were grey-bearded age ; 
but where my theme is youth and beauty, a 
young lady whose personal charms, wit, and 
sentiment, are equally striking and unaffected, 
by heavens ! though I had lived threescore 
years a married man, and threescore years be- 
fore I was a married man, my imagination 
would hallow the very idea ; and I am truly 
sorry that the inclosed stanzas have done such 
poor justice to such a subject. 



No. LXVI. 
TO SIR JOHN WHITEFOORD. 

sir, December, 1788. 

Mr M'Kenzie, in Mauchline, my very warm 
and worthy friend, has informed me how much 
you are pleased to interest yourself in my fate 
as a man, and, (what to me is incomparably 
dearer) my fame as a poet. I have, sir, in one 
or two instances, been patronized by those of 
your character in life, when I was introduced 

to their notice by friends to them, 

and honoured acquaintances to me : but you 
are the first gentleman in the country whose 
benevolence and goodness of heart has inter- 
ested him for me, unsolicited and unknown. 
I am not master enough of the etiquette of 
these matters to know, nor did I stay to in- 
quire, whether formal duty bade, or cold pro- 
priety disallowed, my thanking you in this 
manner, as I am convinced, from the light in 
which you kindly view me, that you will do 
me the justice to believe this letter is not the 
manoeuvre of a needy, sharping author, fasten- 
ing on those in upper life, who honour him 
with a little notice of him or his works. In- 
deed the situation of poets is generally such, to 
a proverb, as may, in some measure, palliate 
that prostitution of heart and talents they have 
at times been guilty of. I do not think prodi- 
gality is, by any means, a necessary concomi- 
tant of a poetic turn, but believe a careless, 
indolent inattention to economy, is almost in- 
separable from it ; then there must be in the 
neart of every bard of Nature's making, a 
rertain modest sensibility, mixed with a kind 
Ot pride, that will ever keep him out of the 
way of those windfalls of fortune, which fre- 
quently light on hardy impudence and foot- 
licking servility. It is not easy to imagine a 
more helpless state than his, whose poetic 
fancy unfits him for the world, and whose 
character as a scholar, gives him some preten- 
sions to the politesse of life — yet is as poor as 
lam. 

For my part, 1 thank Heaven, my star has 
been kinder ; learning never elevated my ideas 
above the peasant's shed, and I have an inde- 
pendent fortune at the plough-tail 



I was surprised to hear that any one, who 
pretended in the least to the manners of the 
gentleman, should be so foolish, or worse, as to 
stoop to traduce the morals of such a one as I 
am, and so inhumanly cruel, too, as to meddle 
with that late most unfortunate, unhappy part 
of my story. With a tear of gratitude, I thank 
you, sir, for the warmth with which you inter- 
posed in behalf of my conduct. I am, I ac- 
knowledge, too frequently the sport of whim,, 
caprice, and passion — but reverence to God, 
and integrity to my fellow-creatures, I hope f 
shall ever preserve. I have no return, sir, to 
make you for your goodness but one — a return 
which, I am persuaded, will not be unaccepta- 
ble — the honest, warm wishes of a grateful 
heart for your happiness, and every one of that 
lovely flock, who stand to you in a filial rela- 
tion. If ever calumny aim the poisoned shaft 
at them, may friendship be by to ward the blow' 



No. LXV1I. 
FROM MR G. BURNS. 

dear brother, Mossgiel, 1st January, 1789. 
I have just finished my new-year's-day break 
fast in the usual form, which naturally makes 
me call to mind the days of former years, and 
the society in which we used to begin them ; 
and when I look at our family vicissitudes, 
" through the dark postern of time long 
elapsed," I cannot help remarking to you, my 
dear brother, how good the God of Seasons 
is to us ; and that however some clouds may 
seem to lower over the portion of time before 
us, we have great reason to hope that all will 
turn out well. 

Your mother and sisters, with Robert the 
second, join me in the compliments of the 
season to you and Mrs Burns, and beg you 
will remember us in the same manner to Wil- 
liam, the first time you see him. 

I am, dear brother, yours, 

GILBERT BURNS. 



No. LXVIII. 
TO MRS DUNLOP. 



Ellidand, New-Year-Day Morning, 1789. 
This, dear madam, is a morning of wishes, 
and would to God that I came under the 
apostle James's description ! — the prayer of a 
righteous man availeth much. In that case,, 
madam, you should welcome in a year full of 
blessings ; every thing that obstructs or dis- 
turbs tranquillity arid self-enjoyment, should be 
removed, and every pleasure that frail huma- 
nity can taste, should be yours. I own myself 
so little a Presbyterian, that I approve of set 
times and seasons of more than ordinary acts- 



pf devotion, for breaking in on that habituated 
routine of life and thought, which is so apt to 
reduce our existence to a kind of instinct, or 
even sometimes, and with some minds, to a 
state very little superior to mere machinery. 

This day ; the first Sunday of May ; a 
breezy, blue-skyed noon some time about the 
beginning, and a hoary morning and calm sunny 
day about the end, of autumn ; these, time out 
of mind, have been with me a kind of holiday. 



I believe I owe this to that glorious paper 
in the Spectator, " The Vision of Mirza ;" a 
piece that struck my young fancy before I was 
capable of fixing an idea to a word of three 
syllables : " On the 5th day of the moon, 
which, according to the custom of my forefa- 
thers, I always krrp holy, after having washed 
myself, and offered up my morning devotions, 
I asceiidtd the high hill of Bagdat, in order to 
pass the rest of the day in meditation and 
prayer." 

I We know nothing, or next to nothing, of 

the substance or structure of our souls, so 
cannot account for those seeming caprices, in 
them, that one should be particularly pleased 
with this thing, or struck with that, which, on 
minds of a different cast, makes no extraordi- 
nary impression. I have some favourite 
flowers in spring, among which are the moun- 
tain daisy, the hare-bell, the fox-glove, the 
wild-brier rose, the budding birch, and the 

( hoary hawthorn, that I view and hang over 

with particular delight. I never hear the loud, 
solitary whistle of the curlew, in a summer 
noon, or the wild mixing cadence of a troop of 
grey plover, in an autumnal morning, without 
feeling an elevation of soul like the enthusiasm 
of devotion or poetry. Tell me, my dear 
friend, to what can this be owing ? Are we 
a piece of machinery, which, like the .Siolian 
harp, passive, takes the impression of the pas- 
sing accident ? Or do these workings argue 
something within us above the trodden clod ? 
I own myself partial to such proofs of those 
awful and important realities — a God that 
made all things — man's immaterial and im- 
mortal nature — and a world of weal or woe 
beyond death and the grave. 



TO DR MOORE. 

FMsland, near Dumfries, ilh Ja>* 1789. 
BIB, 

As often as I think of writing to you, which 
L.is been three or four times every week these 
bix months, it gives me something so like the 
idea of an ordinary-sized statue offering at a 



'ERS. 30 

conversation with the Rhodian Colossus, that 
my mind misgives me, and the affair always 
miscarries somewhere between purpose and 
resolve. I have, at last, got some business 
with you, and business-letters are written by 
the style-book. — I say my business is with 
you, sir, for you never had any with me, except 
the business that benevolence has in the man- 
sion of poverty. 

The character and employment of a poet 
were formerly my pleasure, but are now my 
pride. I know that a very great deal of my 
late eclat was owing to the singularity of my 
situation, and the honest prejudice of Scots- 
men ; but still, as I said in the preface to my 
first edition, I do look upon myself as having 
some pretensions from Nature to the poetic 
character. I have not a doubt but the knack, 
the aptitude, to learn the muses' trade, is a 
gift bestowed by Him " who forms the secret 
bias of the soul ;" — bur as I firmly believe, that 
excellence in the profession is the fruit of in- 
dustry, labour, attention, and pains. At least 
I am resolved to try my doctrine by the test of 
experience. Another appearance from the 
press I put off to a very distant day, a day that 
may never arrive — but poesy I am determined 
to prosecute with all my vigour. Nature has 
given very few, if any, of the profession, the 
talents of shining in every species of composi- 
tion. I shall try (for until trial it is impossi- 
ble to know) whether she has qualified me to 
shine in any one. The worst of it is, by the 
time one has finished a piece, it has been so 
often viewed and reviewed before the mental 
eye, that one loses, in a good measure, the 
powers of critical discrimination. Here the 
best criterion I know is a friend — not only of 
abilities to judge, but with good nature enough, 
like a prurient teacher with a young learner, to 
praise perhaps a little more than is exactly 
just, lest the thin-skinned animal fall into that 
most deplorable of all poetic diseases — heart- 
breaking despondency of himself. Dare I, sir, 
already immensely indebted to your goodness, 
ask the additional obligation of your being that 
friend to me? 1 enclose you an essay of mine, 
in a walk of poesy to me entirely new; I mean 
the epistle addressed to R. G. Esq. or Robert 
Graham, of Fintry, Esq. a gentleman of un- 
common worth, to whom I lie under very 
great obligations. The story of the poem, like 
most of my poems, is connected with my own 
story, and to give you the one, I must give 
you something of the other. I cannot boast 
of 



1 believe I shall, in whole, <£!00 copy-right 
included, clear about £4-00 some little odds ; 
and even part of this depends upon what the 
gentleman has yet to settle with me. I give 
you this information, because you did me the 
honour to interest yourself much in my wel- 



BURNS' WORKS. 



To give the rest of my story in brief, 1 have 
married •' my Jean," and taken a farm ; with 
the first step I have every day more and more 
reason to be satisfied; with the last, it is 
rather the reverse. ] have a younger brother, 
who supports my aged mother ; another still 
younger brother, and three sisters, in a farm. 
On my last return from Edinburgh, it cost me 
about i'180 to save ihem from ruin. Not 
that I have lost so much — I only interposed 
between my brother and his impending fate by 
the loan of so much. I give myself no airs 
on this, for it was mere selfishness on my part ; 
I was conscious that the wrong scale of the 
balance was pretty heavily charged, and I 
thought that throwing a little filial piety, and 
fraternal affection, into the scale in my favour, 
might help to smooth matters at the grand 
reckoning. There is still one thing would 
make my circumstances quite easy ; I have an 
excise officer's commission, and I live in the 
midst of a country division. My request to 
Mr Graham, who is one of the commissioners 
of excise, was, if in his power, to procure me 
that division. If 1 were very sanguine, I 
might hope that some of my great patrons 
might procure me a treasury warrant for su- 
pervisor, surveyor-general, &c. 



tical infidelity would, to me, ever justify, I 
must have been a fool to have hesitated, and a 



Thus secure of a livelihood, " to thee, sweet 
poetry, delightful maid," J would consecrate 
my future days. 



No. LXX. 
TO BISHOP GEDDES. 
Kllkland, near Dumfries, 3d Feb. 1789. 

VENERABLE FATHER, 

As I am conscious that wherever I am you do 
me the honour to interest yourself in my wel- 
fare, it gives me pleasure to inform you, that I 
am here at last, stationary in the serious busi- 
ness of life, and have now not only the retired 
leisure, but the hearty inclination, to attend to 
those great and important questions — what I 
am? where I am ? and for what I am destined ? 
In that first concern, the conduct of the 
man, there was ever but one side on which 1 
was habitually blameable, and there I have 
secured myself in the way (jointed out by 
Nature and Nature's God. I was sensible 
that, to so helpkss a creature as a poor poet, 
a wife and family were incumbrances, which 
a species of prudence would bid him shun ; 
but when the alternative was, being at eternal 
warfare with myself, on account of habitual 
follies, to give them no worse name, which no 
general example, no licentious wit, no sophis- 



In the affair of a livelihood, I think myself 
tolerably secure: I have gcod hopes of my 
farm ; but should they fail, I have an excise 
commission, which on my simple petition, 
will, at any time, procure me bread. There 
is a certain stigma affixed to the character of 
an excise officer, but I do not intend to borrow 
honour from any profession -, and though the 
salary be comparatively small, it is great to 
any thing that the first twenty-five years of my 
life taught me to expect. 



Thus, with a rational aim and method in 
life, you may easily guess, my reverend and 
much-honoured friend, that my characteristical 
trade is not forgotten. I am, if possible, more 
than ever an enthusiast to the muses. I am 
determined to study man and nature, and in 
that view incessantly ; and to try if the ripen- 
ing and corrections of years can enable nie to 
produce something worth preserving. 

You will see in your book, which I beg 
your pardon for detaining so long, that I have 
been tuning my lyre on the banks of Nith. 
Some larger poetic plans that are floating in my 
imagination, or partly put in execution, I shall 
impart to you when I have the pleasure of 
meeting with you, which, if you are then in 
Edinburgh, I shall have about the beginning 
of March. 

That acquaintance, worthy sir, with which 
you were pleased to honour me, you must still 
allow me to challenge ; for with whatever un- 
concern I give up my transient connection 
with the merely great, I cannot lose the pa- 
tronizing notice of the learned and the good, 
without the bitterest regret. 



FROM THE REV. P. C 

sat, 2d January, 1789. 

If you have lately seen Mrs Dunlop, of Dun- 
lop, you have certainly heard of the author of 
the verses which accompany this letter. He 
was a man highly respectable for every accom- 
plishment and virtue which adorns the charac- 
ter of a man or a Christian. To a great 
degree of literature, of taste, and poetic genius, 
was added an invincible modesty of temper, 
which prevented, in a great degree, his figuring 
in life, and confined the perfect knowledge of 
his character and talents to the small circle of 
his chosen friends. He was untimely taken 
from us, a few weeks ago, by an inflammatory 



fever, in the prime of lite — beloved by all. 
who ei joyed his acquaintance, and lamented by 
■all, who have any regard for virtue or gonitis. 
There is a woe pronounced in Scripture against 
the person whom all men speak well of; if 
-ever that woe fell upon the head of mortal 
man. it I'll upon him. He has left behind 
him a considerable number of compositions, 
chiefly poetical ; sufficient. I imagine, to 
make a large octavo volume. In p rtienlar, 
two complete and regular tragedies, a farce of 
piree acts, and some .-.mailer poems on differ- 
ent subjects. Ir bills to my share, who have 
lived in the most intimate and uninterrupted 
friendship with him from my youth upwards, 
to transmit to you the verses he wrote on the 
publication of your incomparable poems. It 
is probable they were Ins last, as they were 
found in Irs scrutoire, folded up with the form 
of a letter addressed to you, and I imagine, 
were only prevented from being sent by him- 
self, by that melancholy dispensation which we 
still bi moan. The verses themselves I will 
not pretend to criticise when writing to a 
gentleman whom I consider as entirely quali- 
fied to judge of their merit. They are the 
only verses he seems to have attempted in the 
Scottish style; and I hesitate not to say, in 
general, that they will bring no dishonour on 
the Scottish muse; — and allow me to add, that 
if it is your opinion they are not unworthy of 
the author, ami will be no discredit to you, it 
is the inclination of Mr Mylne's friends that 
they should be immediately published in some 
periodical work, to give the world a specimen 
of what may he expected from his performances 
in the poetic line, which, perhaps, will be 
afterwards published for the advantage of his 
family. 



I must beg the favour of a letter from you, 
acknowledging the receipt of this, and to be 
allowed to subscribe myself with great regard, 
Sir, your most obedient servant, 

P. C . 



No. LXXI1 

TO MRS DUNLOP. 

EUisland, iih March, 1789. 
Hv.re am I, my honoured friend, returned 
Bate from the capital. To a man, who has a 
home, however humble or remote — if that 
home is like mine, the scene of domestic com- 
fort—the bustle of Edinburgh will soon be a 
business of sickening disgust. 

"Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hateycu!" 

When I must skulk into a corner, lest the 
rattling equipage of some gaping blockhead 
•should mangle me in the mire, I am tempted 



TERS. 41 

| to exclaim—'' What merits has he had, or 
what demerit have 1 had, in some state of pre- 
existence, that he is ushered into this state of 
being with the sceptre of rule, and the key of 
riches, in his puny list, and I am kicked into 
the world, the sport of folly, or the victim of 
pride ?" I have read somewhere of a monarch 
(in Spain I think it was,) who was so out of 
humour v if h the Prolemean system nf astro- 
nomy, that he said, bad he been of the Cura- 
tor's council, he could have saved him a great 
deal of labour and absurdity. I will not de- 
fend this blasphemous speech ; but often, as 1 
have glided with humble stealth through the 
pomp nf Prince's Street, it has suggested itself 
to me, as an improvement on the present 
human figure, that a man, in proportion to his 
own conceit of his consequence in the world, 
could have pushed out the longitude of his 
common size, as a snail pushes out his horns, 
or as we draw out a perspective. This trifling 
alteration, not to mention the prodigious saving 
it would be in the tear and wear of the neck 
and limb-sinews of many of his Majesty's liege 
subjects in the way of tossing the head and 
tiptoe strutting, would evidently turn out a 
vast advantage, in enabling us at once to adjust 
the ceremonials in making a bow, or making 
way to a great man, and that too within a 
second of the precise spherical angle of reve- 
rence, or an inch of the particular point of 
respectful distance, which the important crea- 
ture itself requires ; as a measuring glance at 
its towering altitude would determine the affair 

i eu are right, madam, in your idea of poor 
Mylne's poem, which he has addressed to me. 
The piece has a good deal of merit, but it has 
one great fault— it is, by far, too long. Be- 
sides, my success has encouraged such a shoal 
of ill-spawned monsters to crawl into public 
notice, under the title of Scottish Poets, that 
the very term of Scottish Poetry borders on 

the burlesque. When I write to Mr C , 

I shall advise him rather to try one of his de- 
ceased friend's English pieces. I am prodigi- 
ously hurried with my own matters, else I 
would have requested a perusal of all Mylne's 
poetic performances ; and would have offered 
his friends my assistance in either selecting or 
correcting what would be proper for the press. 
What it is that occupies me so much, and 
perhaps a little oppresses my present spirits, 
shall fill up a paragraph in some future letter. 
In the meantime allow me to close this epistle 
with a few lines done by a friend of mine . . 
... I give you them, that as you have seen 
the original, you may guess whether one or 
two alterations I have ventured to make in 
them, be any real improvement. 

Like the fair plant that from our touch withdraws, 
Shrink mildly fearful even from applause, 
Be all a mother's fondest hope can dream, 

And all you are, my charming , seem. 

Straight as the fox-glove, ere her bells disclose, 
Mild as the maiden-blushhig hawthorn blows, 



43 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Fair as the fairest of each lovely kind, 
Your form shall be the image of your mind : 
Your manners shall so true your soul express, 
That all shall long to know the worth they guess : 
Congenial hearts shall greet with kindred love, 
And even sick'ning envy must approve. * 



TO THE REV. P. CARFRAE. 

REVEREND SIR, 1789. 

I do not recollect that I have ever felt a 
severer pang of shame, than on looking at the 
date of your obliging letter, which accompanied 
Mr Mylne's poem. 



I am much to blame : the honour Mr Mylne 
has done me, greatly enhanced in its value by 
the endearing, though melancholy circumstance, 
of its being the last production of his muse 
deserved a better return. 

I have, as you hint, thought of sending a" 
copy of the poem to some periodical publica- ! 
tion ; but, on second thoughts, I am afraid ; 
that, in the present case, it would be an im- 
proper step. My success, perhaps as much] 
accidental as merited, has brought an inunda- 
tion of nonsense under the name of Scottish 
poetry. Subscription -bills for Scottish poems 
have so dunned, and daily do dun the public, 
that the very name is in danger of contempt. 
For these reasons, if publishing any of Mr M.'s 
poems in a magazine, &c. be at all prudent, in 
my opinion it certainly should not be a Scottish 
poem. The profits of the labours of a man 
of genius, are, I hope, as honourable as any; 
profits whatever; and Mr Mylne's relations 
are most justly entitled to that honest harvest, ' 
which fate has denied himself to reap. But 
let the friends of Mr Mylne's fame (among 
whom I crave the honour of ranking myself), 
always keep in eye his respectability as a man 
and as a poet, and take no measure that, be- 
fore the world knows any thing about him, 
would risk his name and character being 
classed with the fools of the times. 

I have, sir, some experience of publishing ; 
and the way in which I would proceed with 
Mr Mylne's poems, is this : — I would publish, 
in two or three English and Scottish public 
papers, any one of his English poems which 
should, by private judges, be thought the most 
excellent, and mention it at the same time, as 
one of the productions of a Lothian farmer, 
of respectable character, lately deceased, whose 
poems his friends had it in idea to publish, 
" -soon, by subscription, for the sake of his nu- 



merous family : — not in pity to that familyv 
but in justice to what his friends think the 
poetic merits of the deceased ; and to secure 
in the most effectual manner, to those tender 
connexions, whose right it is, the pecuniary 
reward of those merits. 



No. LXXIV. 

TO DR MOORE. 

sir, Ellisland, 2:id March, 17S9. 

The gentleman who will deliver you this is a 
Mr Nielson, a worthy clergyman in my neigh- 
bourhood, and a very particular acquaintance 
of mine. As I have troubled him with this 
packet, I must turn him over to your goodness, 
to recompense him for it in a way in which he 
much needs your assistance, and where you 
can effectually serve him : — Mr Nielson is on 
his way for France, to wait on his Grace of 
Queensberry, on some little business of a good 
deal of importance to him, and he wishes for 
your instructions respecting the most eligible 
mode of travelling, &c. for him, when he has 
crossed the Channel. I should not have 
dared to take this liberty with you, but that I 
am told, by those who have the honour of your 
personal acquaintance, that to be a poor honest 
Scotchman is a letter of recommendation to 
you, and that to have it in your power to serve 
such a character, gives you much pleasure. 



* These beautiful lines, we have reason to believe, 
nre the production of the lady to whom this letter h 

addressed. 



The enclosed ode is a compliment to the 

memory of the late Mrs , of . 

You probably knew her personally, an honour 
of which I cannot boast ; out I spent my early 
years in her neighbourhood, and among hei 
servants and tenants. I know that she was- 
detested with the most heartfelt cordiality. 
However, in the particular part of her conduct 
which roused my poetic wrath, she was much 
less blameable. In January last, on my road 
to Ayrshire, I had put up at Bailie Wigham's 
in Sanquhar, the only tolerable inn in the 
place. The frost was keen, and the grim 
evening and howling wind were ushering in a 
night of snow and drift. My horse and I were 
both much fatigued with the labours of the 
day, and just as my friend the Bailie and I 
were bidding defiance to the storm, over a 
smoking bowl, in wheels the funeral pageantry 

of the late great Mrs , and poor I am. 

forced to brave all the horrors of the tempes- 
tuous night, and jade my horse, my young 
favourite horse, whom I had just christened 
Pegasus, twelve miles farther on, through the 
wildest muirs and hills of Ayrshire, to New 
Cumnock, the next inn. The powers of poesy 
and prose sink under me, when I would de- 
scribe what I felt. Suffice it to say, that where. 
a good fire, at New Cumnock, had so far re- 



covered my frozen sinews, I sat down and 
wrote the enclosed ode. 

I was at Edinburgh lately, and settled finally 
with Mr Creech; and I must own, that, at 
last, he has been amicable and fair with me. 



TO MR HILL. 

EUisland, 2d April, 1789. 
I will make no excuses, my dear Bibliopolus, 
(God forgive me for murdering language!) 
that I have sat down to write you on this vile 
paper. 



It is economy, sir ; it is that cardinal virtue, 
prudence ; so I beg you will sit down, and 
either compose or borrow a panegyric. If 
you are going to borrow, apply to 



to compose, or rather to compound, something 
very clever on my remarkable frugality ; that I 
write to one of my most esteemed friends on 
this wretched paper, which was originally in- 
tended for the venal fist of some drunken ex- 
ciseman, to take dirty notes in a miserable 
vault of an ale-cellar. 

O Frugality ! thou mother of ten thousand 
blessings — thou cook of fat beef and dainty 
greens ! — thou manufacturer of warm Shetland 
hose, and comfortable surtouts ! — thou old 
housewife, darning thy decayed stockings with 
thy ancient spectacles on thy aged nose ; — 
lead me, hand me in thy clutching palsied fist, 
up those heights, and through those thickets, 
hitherto inaccessible, and impervious to my 
anxious weary feet : — not those Parnassian 
craggs, bleak and barren, where the hungry 
worshippers of fame are, breathless, clamber- 
ing, hanging between heaven and hell ; but 
those glittering cliffs of Potosi, where the all- 
sufficient, all-powerful deity, Wealth, holds 
his immediate court of joys and pleasures ; 
where the sunny exposure of plenty, and the 
hot walls of profusion, produce those blissful 
fruits of luxury, exotics in this world, and na- 
tives of paradise ! — Thou withered sybil, my 
sage conductress, usher me into the refulgent, 
adored presence ! — The power, splendid and 

Eotent as he now is, was once the puling nurs- 
ng of tliy faithful care, and tender arms ! 
Call me thy son, thy cousin, thy kinsman, or 
favourite, and adjure the god, by the scenes of 
his infant years, no longer to repulse me as a 
stranger, or an alien, but to favour me with 
his peculiar countenance and protection ! He 
daily bestows his greatest kindness on the un- 
deserving and the worthless — assure him, that 
I bring ample documents of meritorious de- 



rERS. 43 

merits I Pledge yourself for me, that, for the 
glorious cause of Lucre, I will do any thing, 
be any thing — but the horse-leech of private- 
oppression, or the vulture of public robbery ' 



But to descend from heroics, 



I want a Shakspeare ; I want likewise an Er-. K 
lish dictionary — Johnson's, I suppose, is best. 
In these and all my prose commissions, the 
cheapest is always the best for me. There is 
a small debt of honour that I owe Mr Robert 
Cleghorn, in Saughton Mills, my worthy 
friend, and your well-wisher. Please give 
him, and urge him to take it, the first time 
you see him, ten shillings worth of any thing 
you have to sell, and place it to my account. 

The library scheme that I mentioned to you 
is already begun, under the direction of Captain 
Riddel. There is another in emulation of it 
going on at Closeburn, under the auspices of 
Mr Monteith, of Closeburn, which will be on 
a greater scale than ours. Capt. R. gave his 
infant society a great many of his old books, 
else I had written you on that subject ; but, 
one of these days, I shall trouble you with a 
commission for " The Monktand Friendly 
Society" — a copy of The Spectator, Mirror, 
and Lounger ; Man of Feeling, Man of the 
World, Guthrie's Geographical Grammar, with 
some religious pieces, will likely be our first 
order. 

When I grow richer, I will write to you on 
gilt post, to make amends for this sheet. At 
present, every guinea has a five guinea errand 
with 

My dear sir, 

Your faithful, poor, but honest friend, 
R. B. 



No. LXXVI. 
TO MRS DUNLOP. 

EUisland, 2d April, 1789. 



I no sooner hit on any poetic plan or fancy, 
but I wish to send it to you ; and if knowing 
and reading these give half the pleasure to you, 
that communicating them to you gives to me, 
I am satisfied. 



I have a poetic whim in my head, which I 
at present dedicate, or rather inscribe, to the 
Right Hon. C. J. Fox ; but how long that 
fancy may hold, I cannot say. A few of the 



BURNS' WORKS. 



first lines I have just rough-sketched, as fol- 
lows : — 

SKETCH. 
How wisdom and folly meet, mix, and unite ; 
How virtue and vice blend their black and their 

white ; 
How genius, th' illustrious father of fiction, 
Confounds rule and law, reconciles contradic- 

I sing: If these mortals, the critics, should 

bustle, 
I care not, not 1, let the critics go wh'stle. 

Hat now for a patron, whose name una whose 

g lol 7. 
At once may illustrate ard honour my story. 

Thou first cf cur orators, first of our wits ; 
Jc>t wnose parts and acquirements seem mere 

lucky hits ; 
With knowledge so vast, and with judgment so 

No man with the half of 'em e'er wem far wrong ; 
With passions so potent, and fancies so bright, 
No man with the half of 'em e'er went quite 

right ; 
A sorry, poor misbegot son of the muses, 
For using thy name offers fifty excuses. 

Good L — d, what is man ! for as simple he 

looks, 
Do but try to develope his hooks and his crooks ; 
With his depths and his shallows, his good and 

his evil, 
All in all he's a problem must puzzle the devil. 

On his one ruling passion Sir Pope hugely 

labours, 
That like the old Hebrew walking-switch, eats 

up its neighbours : 
Mankind are his show-box — a friend, would you 

know hi m ? 
Pull the string, ruling passion, the picture will 

show him. 
What pity, in rearing so beauteous a system, 
One trifling particular, truth, should have miss'd 

him; 



Some sort all our qualities each to its tribe, 
And think human nature they truly describe ; 
Have you found this, or t'other? there's more in 

the wind, 
As by one drunken fellow his comrades you'll 

find. 
But such is the flav/, or the depth of the plan, 
In the make of that wonderful creature call'd 

Man. 
No two virtues, whatever relation they claim, 
Nor even two different shades of the same, 
Though like as was ever twin brother to brothei. 
Possessing the one shall imply you've the other. 



TO MR CUNNINGHAM. 

my dear sir, El.'islcmd, ith May, 1789. 
Your dutyfree favour of the 26th April 1 
received two days ago -. I will not say I peru- 
sed it with pleasure ; that is the cold com- 
pliment of ceremony; I perused it, sir, with 
delicious satisfaction — In short, it is such a 
letter, that not you, nor your friend, but the 
legislature, by express proviso in their postage 
laws, should frank. A letter informed with 
the soul of friendship is such an honour to 
human nature, that they should order it fref 
ingress and egress to and from their bags, 
and mails, as an encouragement and mark of 
distinction to super-eminent virtue. 

I have just put the last hand to** little poem 
which I think will be something to your taste. 
One morning lately as I was out pretty early 
in the fields sowing some grass seeds, I heard 
the burst of a shot from a neighbouring plan- 
tation, and presently a poor little wounded 
hare came crippling by me. You will guess 
my indignation at the inhuman fellow who could 
shoot a hare at this season, when they all of 
them have young ones. Indeed there is some- 
thing in that business of destroying, for our 
sport, individuals in the animal creation that 
do not injure us materially, which I could 
never reconcile to my ideas of virtue. 



On the 20th current I hope to have the 
lion our of assuring you, in person, how sincere- 
y 1 am, 



On Seeing a Fellow Wound a Hare with a 
Shot, April 1789. 

Inhuman man ! curse on thy barb'rous art. 
And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye. 
May never pity soothe thee with a sigh, 

Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart. 

Go live, poor wanderer of the wood and field, 
The bitter little that of life remains; 
No more the thickening brakes or verdant 
plains, 

To thee a home, or food, or pastime yield. 

Seek, mangled innocent, some wonted form ; 
That wonted form, alas ! thy dying bed, 
The sheltering rushes whistling o'er thy head, 

The cold earth wiih thy blood-stained bosom 



Perhaps a mother's anguish adds its woe ; 

The playful pair crowd fondly by thy side; 

Ah ! helpless nurslings, who will now provide 
That life a mother only can bestow? 

Oft as by winding Mith, I, musing, wait 
The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn, 
I'll miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawn, 

And curse the ruthless wretch, and mourn tlvj 
hapless fate. 



I/€t me know how you like my poem. I 
am doubtful whether it would not be an im- 
provement to keep out the last stanza but one 
altogether. 

C is a glorious production of the author 

of man. You, he, and the noble Colonel of 
the C F are, to me, 



' Dear 



; the ruddy drops which warm my 



I have a good mind to make verses on you all, 
to the tune of " three good fellows ayont the 
glen. " 



No. LXXVJII. 

[The poem, in the preceding letter, had also 
been sent by our bard to Dr Gregory for his 
criticism. The following is that gentleman's 
reply.] 

FROM DR GREGORY. 

DEAR SIR, Edinburgh, 2d June, 1789. 

I take the first leisure hour I could command, 
to thank you for your letter, and the copy of 
verses inclosed in it. As there is real poetic 
merit, I mean both fancy, and tenderness, and 
some happy expressions, in them, I think they 
well deserve that you should revise them care- 
fully and polish them to the utmost- This I 
am sure you can do if you please, for you have 
great command both of expression and of 
rhymes . and you may judge from the two last 
pieces of Mrs Hunter's poetry, that I gave you, 
how much correctness and high polish enhance 
the value of such compositions. As you de- 
sire it, I shall, with great freedom, give you 
my most rigorous criticisms on your verses. 1 
wish you would give me another edition of 
them, much amended, and I will send it to 
Mrs Hunter, who, I am sure, will have much 
pleasure in reading it. Pray, give me like- 
wise for myself, and her too, a copy (as much 
amended as you please) of the Water Fowl on 
Loch Turit. 

The Wounded Hare is a pretty good sub- 
ject ; but the measure, or stanza, you have 
chosen for it, is not a good one ; it does not 
flow well ; and the rhyme of the fourth line is 
almost lost by its distance from the first ; and 
the two interposed, close rhymes. If I were 
you, I would put it into a different stanza yet. 

Stanza 1. — The execrations in the first 
two lines are strong or coarse ; but they may 
pass. *' Murder-aiming" is a bad compound 
epithet, and not very intelligible. " Blood- 
stained," in stanza iii. line 4, has the same 
fault : Bleeding bosom is infinitely better. You 
have accustomed yourself to such epithets, 
and have no notion how stiff and quaint they 
appear to others, and how incongruous with 
poetic fancy, and tender sentiments. Suppose 
Pcpe had written, " Why that blood-stained 



^ERS. ^ 

bosom gored," how would you have liked it ? 
Form is neither a poetic, nor a dignified, not a 
plain, common word : it is a mere sportsman's 
word ; unsuitable to pathetic or seriou* poetry. 

" Mangled" is a coarse word. " Innocent," 
in this sense, is a nursery word ; but both niaj 
pass. 

Stanza 4. — " Who will now provide that 
life a mother only can bestow," will not do at 
all : it is not grammar — it is not intelligible. 
Do you mean " provide for that life which the 
morber had bestowed and used to provide for?" 

There was a ridiculous slip of the pen, 
" Feeling" (I suppose) for " Fellow," in the 
title of your copy of verses ; but even fellow 
would be wrong : it is but a colloquial and 
vulgar word, unsuitable to your sentiments. 
" Shot" is improper too. — On seeing a person- 
(or a sportsman) wound a hare ; it 's needless 
to add with what weapon ; but if you think 
otherwise, you should say, with a fowling-piece. 

Let me see you when you come to town, 
and I will show you some more of Mrs Hun- 
ter's poems.* 



No. LXXIX. 
TO MR M ' A U L E Y, 

OF DUMBARTON. 

dear sir, ith June, 1789. 

Though I am not without my fears respect- 
ing my fate at that grand, universal inquest of 
right and wrong, commonly called The Last 
Day, yet I trust there is one sin, which that 
arch-vagabond, Satan, who, I understand, is to 
be king's evidence, cannot throw in my teeth. 
— I mean ingratitude. There is a certain 
pretty large quantum of kindness for which I 
remain, and from inability, I fear, must remain 
your debtor ; but though unable to repay the 
debt, I assure you, sir, I shall ever warmly 
remember the obligation. It gives me the' 
sincerest pleasure to hear by my old acquaint- 
ance, Mr Kennedy, that you are, in immortal 
Allan's language, " Hale and weel, and liv- 
ing ;" and that your charming family are well, 
and promising to be an amiable and respectable 
addition to the company of performers, whom 
the Great Manager of the Drama of Man is- 
bringing into action for the succeeding age. 

With respect to my welfare, a subject in. 



* It must be admitted, that this criticism is not- 
more distinguished by its good sense, than by its free- 
dom from ceremony. It is impossible not to smile at 
the manner in which the poet may be suppo.-cd to have 
received it In fact it appears, :s the -aihns say, to 
have thrown him quite a-back. In a letter which he 



n after 



' Dr 



! belie 



in the 



but he c 

iron justice of Dr G ; but like the devils, 1 dp- 

lieve and tremble." However, lie profited by ll.ese- 
criticisms, as the reader will find bv comparing this, 
first edition of the poem, with that puLuaheJ after- 



46 



BURNS' WORKS. 



which you once warmly and effectively inter- 
ested yourself, I am here in my old way, hold- 
ing my plough, marking the growth of my 
corn, or the health of my dairy ; and at times 
sauntering by the delightful windings of the 
Nith, on the margin of which I have built my 
humble domicile, praying for seasonable wea- 
ther, or holding an intrigue with the Muses ; 
tie only gipseys with whom I have now any 
intercourse. As I am entered into the holy 
state of matrimony, I trust my face is turned 
completely Zion ward ; and as it is a rule with 
p11 honest fellows, to repeat no grievances, I 
hope that the little poetic licences of former 
days, will of course fall under the oblivious 
intluence of some good-natured statute of celes- 
tial proscription. In my family devotion, 
which, like a good presbyterian, I occasionally 
give to my household folks, 1 am extremely 
fond of the psalm, " Let not the errors of my 
youth," &c. and that other, " Lo, children are 
God's heritage," &c. in which last Mrs Burns, 
who, by the bye, has a glorious " wood-note 
wild" at either old song or psalmody, joins me 
with the pathos of Handel's Messiah. 



TO MRS DUNLOP. 

TEAR madam, Ellisland, 21s< June, 1789. 
Will you take the effusions, the miserable 
effusions of low spirits, just as they flow from 
their bitter spring. I know not of any parti- 
cular cause for this worst of all my foes beset- 
ting me, but for some time my soul has been 
beclouded with a _ thickening atmosphere of 
evil imaginations and gloomy presages. 



Monday Evening. 

T have just heard give a sermon. 

He is a man famous for his benevolence, and 
I revere him ; but from such ideas of my 
Creator, good Lord deliver me ! Religion, 
my honoured friend, is surely a simple business, 
as it equally concerns the ignorant and the 
learned, the poor and the rich. That there is 
an incomprehensibly great Being, to whom I 
owe my existence, and that he must be inti- 
mately acquainted with the operations and 
progress of the internal machinery, and conse- 
quent outward deportment of this creature 
which he has made ; these are, I think, self- 
evident propositions. That there is a real and 
eternal distinction between virtue and vice, and 
consequently that I am an accountable crea- 
ture ; that from the seeming nature of the 
human mind, as well as from the evident im- 
perfection, nay, positive injustice, in the admi- 
nistration of affairs, both in the natural and 



moral worlds, there must be a retributive scene 
of existence beyond the grave ; must, I think, 
be allowed by every one who will give himself 
a moment's reflection. I will go farther, and 
affirm, that from the sublimity, excellence, 
and purity of his doctrine and precepts, un- 
paralleled by all the aggregated wisdom and 
learning of many preceding ages, though, to 
appearance, he himself was the obscurest and 
most illiterate of our species ; therefore, Jesus 
Christ was from God. 



Whatever mitigates the woes, or increases 
the happiness of others, this is my criterion of 
goodness ; and whatever injures society at 
large, or any individual in it, this is my mea- 
sure of iniquity. 

What think you, madam, of my creed ? I 
trust that I have said nothing that will lessen 
me in the eye of one, whose good opinion I 
value almost next to the approbation of my own 
mind. 



No. LXXXI. 
FROM DR MOORE. 

SEAR sir, Clifford Street, 10th June, 1789. 
J thank you for the different communications 
you have made me of your occasional produc- 
tions in manuscript, all of which have merit, 
and some of them merit of a different kind 
from what appears in the poems you have 
published. You ought carefully to preserve 
all your occasional productions, to correct and 
improve them at your leisure : and when you 
can select as many of these as will make a 
volume, publish it either at Edinburgh or 
London, by subscription : On such an occa- 
sion, it may be in my power, as it is very much 
in my inclination, to be of service to you. 

If I were to offer an opinion, it would be, 
that in your future productions you should 
abandon the Scottish stanza and dialect, and 
adopt the measure and language of modern 
English poetry. 

The stanza which you use in imitation of 
Christ Kirk on the Green, with the tiresome 
repetition of "that day," is fatiguing to Eng- 
lish ears, and I should think not very agreeable 
to Scottish. 

All the fine satire and humour of your Holy 
Fair is lost on the English ; yet, without mors 
trouble to yourself, you could have conveyed 
the whole to them. The same is true of some 
of your other poems. In your Epistle to J. 

S , the stanzas from that beginning with 

this line, " This life, so far's I understand," 
to that which ends with, " Short while it 
grieves," are easy, flowing, gaily philosophical, 
and of Horatian elegance — the language is 
English, with a few Scottish words, and some ' 



of those so harmonious, as to add to the 
beauty : for what poet would not prefer ylo< 
ing to twiliyht. 

I imagine, that by carefully keeping, and 
occasionally polishing and correcting those 
verses, which the muse dictates, you will, 
within a year or two, have another volume as 
large as the first, ready for the press ; and this, 
without diverting you from every proper atten- 
tion to the study and practice of husbandry, in 
which I understand you are very learned, and 
which I fancy you will choose to adhere to as 
a wife, while poetry amuses you from time to 
time as a mistress. The former, like a pru- 
dent wife, must not show ill humour, although 
you retain a sneaking kindness to this agreea- 
ble gipsey, and pay her occasional visits, which 
in no manner alienates your heart from your 
lawful spouse, but tends on the contrary to 
promote her interest. 

I desired Sir Cadell to write to Mr Creech 
to send you a copy of Zeluco. This perform- 
ance has had great success here, but I shall be 
glad to have your opinion of it, because J know 
you are above saying what you do not think. 

I beg you wall offer my best wishes to my 
very good friend, Mrs Hamilton, who I under- 
stand is your neighbour. If she is as happy as 
I wish her, she is happy enough. Make my 
compliments also to Mrs Burns, and believe 
me to be, with sincere esteem, 

Dear Sir, yours, &c. 



No. LXXXII. 

FROM MISS J. L 

sir, - Loudon- House, \2th July, 1789. 
Though 1 have not the happiness of being 
personally acquainted with you, yet amongst, 
the number of those who have read and ad- 
mired your publications, may I be permitted to 
trouble you with this. You must know, sir, 
I am somewhat in love with the Muses, though 
i cannot boast of any favours they have deigned 
to confer upon me as yet ; my situation in life 
has been very much against me as to that. I 
have spent some years in and about Ecclefechan 
(where my parents reside), in the station of a 
servant, and am now come to Loudon-House, 

at present possessed by Mrs H : she is 

daughter to Mrs Dunlop, of Dunlop, whom I 
understand you are particularly acquainted 
with. As I had the pleasure of perusing your 
poems, I felt a partiality for the author, which 
I should not have experienced had you been in 
more dignified station. I wrote a few verses 
of addiess to you, which I did not then think 
of ever presenting : but as fortune seems to 
have favoured me in this, by bringing me into 
a family by whom you are well known and 
much esteemed, and where perhaps I may 
nave an opportunity of seeing you ; I shall, in 



hopes of your future friendship, take the liberty 
to transcribe them. 



Fair fa' the honest, rustic swain, 
The pride o' a* our Scottish plain : 
Thou gi'es us joy to hear thy strain, 

And notes sae sweet : 
Old Ramsay's shade revived again 

In thee we greet. 

Loved Thalia, that delight in' muse, 



Since Allan's day. 
'Till Burns arose, then did she chuse 
To grace his lay. 

To hear thy sang all ranks desire, 
Sae weel you strike the dormant lyre; 
Apollo with poetic fire 

Thy breast does warm , 
And critics silently admire 

Thy art to charm. 

Csesar and Luath weel can speak, 
'Tis pity e'er their gabs should steek, 
But into human nature keek, 

And knots unravel: 
To hear their lectures once a- week, 

Nine miles I'd travel. 

Thy dedication to G. H. 

An unco bonnie hamespun speech, 

Wi' winsome glee the heart can teach 

A better lesson, 
Than servile bards, who fawn and fleech 
\ Like beggar's messon. 

When slighted love becomes your theme, 
And women's faithless vows you blame; 
With so much pathos you exclaim, 

In your lament ; 
But glanced by the most frigid dame, 

She would relent. 

The daisy too ye sing wi' skill ; 
And weel ye praise the whisky gill; 
In vain 1 blunt my feckless quill, 

Your fame to raise; 
While echo sounds from ilka hill, 

To Bums's praise. 

Did Addison or Pope but hear, 
Or Sam, that critic most severe, 
A ploughboy sing with throat sae clear, 

The)- in a rage, 
Their works would a' in pieces tear, 

Andcurse your page. 

Sure Milton's eloquence were faint, 
The beauties of your verse to paint, 
My rude unpolish'd strokes but taint 

Their brilliancy; 
Th' attempt would doubtless vex a saint. 
And weel may me. 



The task I'll drc 



ith heart sincere, 



That all the blessings mortals share, 
May be by turns, 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Sir, I hope you will pardon my boldness in 
this ; my hand trembles while I write to you. 
conscious of my un worthiness of what I woul.i 
most earnestly solicit, viz. your favour and 
friendship ; yet hoping you will show yourself 
possessed of as much generosity and good- 
nature as will prevent your exposing what may 
justly be found liable to censure in this mea- 
sure, I shall take the liberty to subscribe my- 
self, 



Sir, 
Your most obediei 



J- 



P. S. — If you would condescend to honour 
me with a i'ew lines from your hand, I would 
take it as a particular favour, and direct to me 
at Loudon- House, near GaMock. 



No. LXXXIII. 
FROM MR 

MY DEAR SIR, Lowlon, blh Auyli-st, I7fel>. 

Excuse me when I say, that the uncommon 
abilities which you possess, must render your 
correspondence very acceptable to any one. I 
can assure you, I am particularly proud of your 
partiality, and shall endeavour, by every me- 
thod in my power, to merit a continuance of" 
your politeness. 



When you can spare a few moments I should 
Oe proud of a letter from you, directed for me, 
Gerrard Street, Soho. 



I cannot express my happiness suiiiciently 
at the instance of your attachment to my late 
inestimable friend, Bob Fergtisson, who was 
particularly intimate with myself and relations.* 
While I recollect with pleasure his extraordi- 
nary talents, and many amiable qualities, it 
affords me the greatest consolation, that I am 
honoured with the correspondence of his suc- 
cessor in national simplicity and genius. That 
Mr Burns has refined in the art of poetry, 
must readily be admitted ; but notwithstanding 
many favourable representations, I am yet to 
'earn that he inherits his convivial powers. 

There was such a richness of conversation, 
such a plenitude of fancy and attraction in 
him, that when 1 call the happy period of our 
Intercourse to my memory, I feel myself in a 
8t£te of delirium. I was th^n younger than 



him by eight or ten years ; but his manner 
was so felicitous, that he enraptured every- 
person around him. and infused into the hearts- 
of the young and old, the spirit and animation* 
which operated on his own mind. 

I am, dear Sir, yours, <\e. 



No. LXXXIV 

TO MR 



IliE F011EG02NG- 



The hurry of a farmer in this particular sea- 
son, and the indolence of a poet at all t mes 
and seasons, will, I hope, plead my excuse for 
neglecting so long to answer your obliging 
letter of the fifth of August. 

That you have done well in quitting your 

laborious concern in I do not doubt j 

the weighty reasons you mention were, i hope, 
very, and deservedly indeed, weighty ones, and 
your health is a matter of the last importance; 
but whether the remaining proprietors of the 
paper have also done well, is what I much 

doubt. The , so far as I was a 

reader, exhibited such a brilliancy of point, 
such an elegance of paragraph, and such a 
variety of intelligence, that I can hardly con- 
ceive it possible to continue a daily paper in 
the same degree of excellence ; but if there 
was a man who had abilities equal to the task, 
that man's assistance the proprietors have lost. 

When 1 received "your letter I was transcrib- 
ing, for , my letter to the Magistrates 

of the Canongate, Edinburgh, begging their 
permission to place a tomb-stone over poor 
Fergusson, and their edict in consequence of 
my petition •, but now I shall send them to 

Poor Fergusson ! If 

there lie a life beyond the grave, which I trust 
there is; and if there be a good God presiding' 
over all nature, which I am sure there is; thou 
art now enjoying existence in a glorious world,, 
where worth of the heart alone is distinction 
in the man; where riches, d prived of all their 
pleasure-purchasing powers, return to their 
native sordid matter: where titles and honours 
are the disregarded reveries of an idle dream v 
and where that heavy virtue, which is the ne- 
gative consequence of steady dulness, and 
those thoughtless, though often destructive 
follies, which are the unavoidable aberrations 
of frail human nature, will be thrown into 
equal oblivion as if they had never been ! 

Adieu, my dear Sir ! so soon as your present 
views and schemes are concentred in an aim* 
I shall be glad be hear from you; as your 
welfare and happiness is by no means a subject 
indifferent to 

Yours, ho. 



No. LXXXV. 
TO MRS DUNLOP. 

EUisland, 6th September, 1789. 

DEAR MADAM, 

I have mentioned in iny last, my appointment 
to the excise, and the birth of littie Frank ; 
who, by the bye, I trust will be no discredit 
to the honourable name of Wallace, a- he has 
a fine manly countenance, and a figure that 
might do credit to a little fellow two months 
older ; and likewise an excellent good temper, 
though when he pleases he has a pipe, only not 
quite so loud as the horn that his immortal 
namesake blew as a signal to take out the pin 
of Stirling bridge. 

I had some time ago an epistle, part poetic, 
and part prosaic, from your poetess, Mrs J. 
L ; a very ingenious, but modest compo- 
sition. I should have written her as she re- 
quested, but for the hurry of this new business. 
I have heard of her and her compositions in 
this country : and 1 am happy to add, always 
to the honour of her character. The fact is, 
I know not well how to write to her ; I should 
sit down to a sheet of paper that I knew not 
how to stain. I am no daub at fine drawn 
letter-writing ; and except when prompted by 
friendship or gratitude, or which happens ex- 
tremely rarely, inspired by the Muse (I know 
not her name) that presides over epistolary 
writing, I sit down, when necessitated to write, 
as I would sit down to beat hemp. 

Some parts of your letter of the 20th August 
struck me with melancholy concern for the 
state of your mind at present. 



Would I could write you a letter of comfort.' 
I would sit down to it with as much pleasure, 
as I would to write an epic poem of my own 
composition, that should equal the Iliad. Re- 
ligion, my dear friend, is the true comfort ! 
A strong persuasion in a future state of exis- 
tence ; a proposition so obviously probable, 
that, setting revelation aside, every nation and 
people, so far as investigation has reached, for 
at least near four thousand years, have, in some 
mode or other, firmly believed it. In vain 
would we reason and pretend to doubt. I 
have myself done so to a very daring pitch ; 
hut when I reflected, that I was opposing the> 
most ardent wishes, and the most darling hopes 
of good men, and flying in the face of all hu- 
man belief, in all ages, I was shocked at my 
own conduct. 

I know not whether I have ever sent you 
the following lines, or if you have ever seen 
them •, but it is one of my favourite quotations, 
which I keep constantly by me in my progress 
through life, ii the language of the book of 
Job, 



" Against Ihe day of batik- and of war."— 
spoken of religion. 



When friends are faithless, or when foes pursue; 
Tisthisihat wards the blow, or stills the smart, 
Disarms affliction or repels his dart: 
Within the breast bids purest raptures rise, 
15id> smiling conscience spread her cloudless 



I have been very busy with Zduco. The 
Doctor is so obliging as to request my opinion 
of it ; and I have been revolving in my mind 
some kind of criticisms on novel writing, but 
it is a depth beyond my research. I shall 
however digest my thoughts on the subject as 
well as 1 can. Ztluco is a most sterling per- 



Farewell ! A Dieu, te bo, 

ononende ! 



, je vous 



FROM DR ELACKLOCK 

Edinburgh, 2lth August, 17S9. 
Dear Burns, thou brother of my heart, 
Both for thy virtues and lliv art:' 
If art it may be call'd in thee, 
Which nature's bounty, large and free, 
Wiih pleasure on thy breast diffuses, 
And warms thy soul with all the Muses. • 
Whether to laugh with easy grace, 
Thy numbers move the sage's face, 
Or bid the softer passions rise, 
And ruthless souls with grief surprise, 
'Tis Nature's voice distinctly felt. 
Through thee her organ, thus to melt. 

Most anxiously 1 wish to know, 
With th.ee of late how matters go ; 
How keeps thy much-loved Jean her health? 
What promises thy farm of wealth? 
Whether the Muse persists to smile, 
And all thy anxious cares beguile? 
Whether bright fancy keeps alive? 
And how thy darling infants thiive c 

For me, with grief and sickness spent, 
Since 1 my journey homeward bent, 
Spirits depress'd no more I mourn, 
But vigour, life, and health return. 
No more to gloomy thoughts a prey, 
I sleep all night, and live all day ; ' 
By turns my book and friend enjoy, 
And thus my circling hours employ ; 
Happy while yet these hours remain, 
Jf Bums could join the cheerful train, 
With wonted zeal, sincere and fervent, 
Salute once more his humble servant, 

THO. BLACKLOCEL 
D 



BURNS' WORKS. 



No. LXXXVII. 

TO DR BLACKLOCK. 

Ellisland, 21 st October, 1789. 
Wow, but your letter made me vauntie ! 
And are ye hale, and weel, and cantie? 
I ken'd it still jour wee bit jauntie, 

Wad bring ye to : 
Lord send you aye as weel's I want ye, 

And then ye'll do. 

Ihe ill-thief blaw the Heron south ! 
And never drink be near his drouth ! 
He tauld mysel by word o' mouth, 

He'd tak my letter ; 
I lippen'd to the chiel in trouth, 

And bade nae better. 

Hut aiblins honest Master Heron, 
Had at the time some dainty fair one, 
To ware his theologic care on, 

And holy study; 
And tired o' sauls to waste his lear on, 

E'en tried the body.* 

But what d'ye think, my trusty tier, 
I'm turn'd a ganger — Peace be here ! 
Parnassian queens, 1 fear, I fear, 

Ye'll now disdain me, 
And then my fifty pounds a-year 

Will little" gain me. 

Ye glaiket, gleesome, dainty damies, 
Wha by Castalia's wimplin streamies, 
Lowp, sing, and lave your pretty limbies, 

Ye ken, ye ken, 
That Strang necessity supreme is 

'Mang sons o' men. 

I hae a wife and twa wee laddies, 

They maun hae brose and brats o' duddies : 

Ye ken yoursel my heart right proud is, 

I needna vaunt, 
But 111 sned besoms — thraw saugh woodies, 

Before they want 

Lord help me thro' this warld o' care ! 
I'm weary sick o't late and air ! 
Not but 1 hae a richer share 

Than mony ithers ; 
But why should ae man better fare, 

And a' men brithers ! 

Come Firm Resolvk take thou the van, 
Thou stalk o' carl-hemp in man ! 
And let us mind, faint heart ne'er wan 

A lady fair : 
Wha does the utmost that he can, 

Will whyles do mair. 

But to conclude my silly rhyme, 
(I'm scant o' verse, and scant o'time,) 
To make a happy fire-side clime 

To weans and wife, 
That's the true pathos and sublime 

Of human life. 



* Mr Heron, author of the History of Scotland, 
lately published ; and among various other works, of 
» respectable life of our poet himself. 



My compliments to sister Beckie; 
And eke the same to honest Lucky ;— 
1 wat she is a dainty chuckie, 

As e'er tread clay ! 
And gratefully my gude auld cockie, 

I'm yours for aye. 

ROBERT BURNS. 



No. L XXXVIII. 
TO R. GRAHAM, ESQ. OF FINTRY. 

sir, 9th December, 1789 

I have a good while had a wish to trouble you 
with a letter, and had certainly done it long ere 
now — but for a humiliating something that 
throws cold water on the resolution, as if one 
should say, " You have found Mr Graham a 
very powerful and kind friend indeed, and that 
interest he is so kindly taking in your con- 
cerns, you ought by every thing in your power 
to keep alive and cherish." Now though, 
since God has thought proper to make one 
powerful and another helpless, the connexion 
of obliger and obliged is all fair j and though 
my being under your patronage is to me highly 
honourable, yet, sir, allow me to flatter myself, 
that, as a poet and an honest man, you first 
interested yourself in my welfare, and princi- 
pally as such still, you permit me to approach 
you. 

I have found the excise business go on a 
great deal smoother with me than I expected ; 
owing a good deal to the generous friendship 
of Mr Mitchell, my collector, and the kind 
assistance of Mr Findlater, my supervisor. I 
dare to be honest, and I fear no labour. Nor 
do I find my hurried life greatly inimical to 
my correspondence with the Muses. Then- 
visits to me, indeed, and I believe to most of 
their acquaintance, like the visits of good an- 
gels, are short and far between ; but I meeZ 
them now and then as I jog through the hills 
of Nithsdale, just, as I used to do on the banks 
of Ayr. I take the liberty to inclose you a 
few bagatelles, all of them the productions of 
my leisure thoughts in my excise rides. 

If you know or have ever seen Captain 
Grose, the antiquarian, you will enter into any 
humour that is in the verses on him. Perhaps 
you have seen them before, as I sent them to 
a London newspaper. Though I dare say 
you have none of the solemn-league-and-cove- 
uant tire, which shone so conspicuous in Lord 
George Gordon, and the Kilmarnock weavers, 
yet I think you must have heard of Dr M'Gill, 
one of the clergymen of Ayr, and his heretical 
book. God help, him poor man ! Though he 
is one of the worthiest, as well as one of the 
ablest of the whole priesthood of the Kirk of 
Scotland, in every sense of that ambiguous 
term, yet the poor Doctor and his numerous 
family are in imminent danger of being thrown 
out to the mercy of the winter-winds. The 
inclosed ballad on that business is, I confess, 



.too local, but I laughed myself at some con- 
ceits in it, though I am convinced in my con- 
science, that there are a good many heavy 
Btanzas in it too. 

The election ballad, as you will see, alludes 
to the present canvass in our string of boroughs. 
I do not believe there will be such a hard run 
match in the whole general election.* 



I am too little a man to have any political 
attachments; I am deeply indebted to, and 
have the warmest veneration for, individuals 
of both parties ; but a man who has it in his 
power to be the father of a country, and who 

is a character that one cannot 

speak of with patience. 

Sir J. J. does " what man can do," but yet 
I doubt his fate. 



No. LXXXIX 

TO MRS DUNLOP. 

EUisland, I3ih December, 1789. 
Many thanks, dear madam, for your sheetful 
of rhymes. Though at present I am below 
the veriest prose, yet from you every thing 
pleases. I am groaning under the miseries of 
a diseased nervous system ; a system, the state 
of which is most conducive to our happiness — 
or the most productive of our misery. For 
now near three weeks I have been so ill with 
a nervous head-ache, that I have been obliged 
to give up, for a time, my excise books, being 
scarce able to lift my head, much less to ride 
once a-week over ten muir parishes. What is 
Man ! To-day, in the luxuriance of health, 
exulting in the enjoyment of existence ; in a 
few days, perhaps in a few hours, loaded 
with conscious painful being, counting the 
tardy pace of the lingering moments by the 
repercussions of anguish, and refusing or de- 
nied a comforter. Day follows night, and 
night comes after day, only to curse him with 
life which gives him no pleasure; and yet the 
awful, dark termination of that life, is a some- 
thing at which he recoils. 

" Tell ub, ye dead ; will none of you in pity 

Disclose the secret 

What 'tis ijnu are, and we must shortly be ! 

- 'tis no matter : 

A litile time will make us leam'd as you are." 

Can it be possible, that when I resign this 
frail, feverish being, I shall still find myself in 



* This alludes to the contest for the borough of 
Dumfries, between the Duke of Queensberry'° ««♦«»=»♦ 
and that of Sir Jaraes Johnstone. 



ERS. ol 

conscious existence ! When the last gasp of 
agony has announced, that I am no more to 
those that knew me, and the few who loved 
me : when the cold, stiffened, unconscious, 
ghastly corse is resigned into the earth, to be 
the prey of unsightly reptiles, and to become 
in time a trodden clod, shall I yet be warm in 
life, seeing and seen, enjoying and enjoyed? 
Ye venerable sages, and holy flamens, is there 
probability in your conjectures, truth in your 
stories of another world beyond death : or are 
they all alike, baseless visions, and fabricated 
fables? If there is another life, it must be 
only for the just, the benevolent, the amiable, 
and the humane ; what a flattering idea, then, 
is the world to come? Would to God I as 
firmly believed it, as I ardently wish it ! There 
I should meet an aged parent, now at rest 
from the many buffetings of an evil world, 
against which he so long and so bravely strug- 
gled. There should I meet the friend, the 
disinterested friend of my early life ; the man 
who rejoiced to see me, because he loved me 

and could serve me. Muir ! thy weaknesser 

were the aberrations of human nature, bu* 
thy heart glowed with every thing generous, 
manly, and noble; and if ever emanation from 
the All-good Being animated a human form, 
it was thine .'. — There should I with speechless 
agony of rapture, again recognize my lost, my 
ever dear Mary ! whose bosom was fraught 
with truth, honour, constancy and love. 

My Mary, dear departed shade! 

Where is thy place of heavenly rest? 
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ? 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? 

Jesus Christ, thou amiablest of characters 
I trust thou art no impostor, and that thy re- 
velation of blissful scenes of existence beyond 
death and the grave, is not one of the many 
impositions which time after time have been 
palmed on credulous mankind. I trust that in 
thee, " shall all the families of the earth be 
blessed," by being yet connected together in a 
better world, where every tie that bound heart 
to heart, in this state of existence, shall be, 
far beyond our present conceptions, more en- 
dearing. 

I am a good deal inclined to think with 
those who maintain, that what are called ner- 
vous affections are in fact diseases of the 
mind. I cannot reason, I cannot think ; and 
but to you I would not venture to write 
any thing above an order to a cobbler. You 
have felt too much of the ills of life not to 
sympathize with a diseased wretch, who is 
impaired more than half of any faculties he 
possessed. Your goodness will excuse this 
distracted scrawl, which the writer dare scarce- 
ly read, and which he would throw into the 
fire, were he able to write any thing better, or 
indeed any thing at all. 

Rumour told me something of a son of 
yours who was returned from the East or 
D3 



52 



BURNS' WORKS. 



West Indies. If you have gotten news of 
James or Anthony, it was cruel in you not to 
let me know ; as I promise you, on the since- 
rity of a man, who is weary of one world and 
anxious about another, that scarce any thing 
could give me so much pleasure as to hear of 
any good thing befalling my honoured friend. 

If you have a minute's leisure, take up your 
pen in pity to le pauvre miserable 



No. XC. 
TO SIR JOHN SINCLAIR. 



The following circumstance has, I believe, 
been omitted in the statistical account, trans- 
mitted to you, of the parish of Dunscore, in 
Nithsdale. I beg leave to send it to you, be- 
cause it is new and may be useful. How far 
it is deserving of a place in your patriotic pub- 
lication, you are the best judge. 

To store the minds of the lower classes 
with useful knowledge, is certainly of very 
great importance, both to them as individuals, 
and to society at large. Giving them a turn 
for reading and reflection, is giving them a 
source of innocent and laudable amusement; 
and besides raises them to a more dignified 
degree in the scale of rationality. Impressed 
with this idea, a gentleman in this parish, 
Robert Riddel, Esq. of Glenriddel, set on foot 
a species of circulating library, on a plan so 
simple as to be practicable in any corner of the 
country ; and so useful, as to deserve the notice 
of every country gentleman, who thinks the 
improvement of that part of his own species, 
whom chance has thrown into the humble 
walks of the peasant and the artisan, a matter 
worthy of his attention. 

Mr Riddel got a number of his own tenants, 
and farming neighbours, to form themselves 
into a society for the purpose of having a library 
among themselves. They entered into a legal 
engagement to abide by it for three years; 
with a saving clause or two, in case of removal 
to a distance, or of death. Each member, at 
his entry, paid five shillings, and at each of 
their meetings, which were held every fourth 
Saturday, sixpence more. With their entry- 
money, and the credit which they took on the 
faith of their future funds, they laid in a tole- 
rable stock of books at the commencement. 
What authors they were to purchase, was 
always decided by the majority. At every 
meeting, all the books, under certain fines and 
forfeitures, by way of penalty, were to be pro- 
duced ; and the members had their choice of 
the volumes in rotation. He whose name 
stood, for that night, first on the list, had his 
choice of what volume he pleased in the whole 
collection ; the second had his choice after the 
first ; the third after the second, and so on to 



the last. At next meeting, he who had be«h 
first on the list at the preceding meeting, was 
last at this ; he who had been second was first : 
and so on through the whole three years. At 
the expiration of the engagement, the books 
were sold by auction, but only among the 
members themselves : and each man had his 
share of the common stock, in money or in 
books, as he chose to be a purchaser or not. 

At the breaking up of this little society, 
which was formed under Mr Riddel's patron- 
age, what with benefactions of books from 
him, and what with their own purchases, they 
had collected together upwards of one hundred 
and fifty volumes. It will easily be guessed, 
that a good deal of trash would be bought. 
Among the books, however, of this little 
library, were Blair's Sermons, Robertson's His 
tory of Scotland, Hume's History of the Stuarts, 
the Spectator, Idler, Adventurer, Mirror, 
Lounger, Observer, Man of Feeling, Man of the 
World, Chrysal, Don Quixote, Joseph An- 
d. eios, 8fc. A peasant who can read, and enjoy 
such books, is certainly a much superior being 
to his neighbour, who perhaps stalks beside 
his team, very little removed, except in shape, 
from the brute he drives. 

Wishing your patriotic exertions their so 
much merited success, I am, 
Sir, 

Your humble servant, 
A PEASANT.* 



No. XCI. 
TO MR GILBERT BURNS. 

Ellisland, 11th January, 1790. 

DEAR BROTHER, 

I mean to take advantage of the frank, though 
I have not in my present frame of mind much 
appetite for exertion in writing. My nerves 
are in a . . . . state. I feel that horrid 



* The above is extracted from the third volume of 
Sir John Sinclaii 598.— It was iuclosed to 
Sir John by Mr Riddel himself in the following letter, 
also printed there. 

* I inclose you a letter, written by Mr Burns as an 
addition to the account of Dunscore parish. It contains 
an account of a small library which he was so good, (at 
my desire) as to set on foot, in the barony of Monklandi 
or Friar's Carse, in tins parish. As its utility has been 
felt, particularly amony the younger class of people, I 
think, that if a similar plan were established, in the 
different parishes of Scotland, it would tend greatly to 
the speedy improvement of the tenantry, trades people, 
and work people. Mr Burns was so good as to take- 
the whole charge of this small concern. He was trea- ; 
surer, librarian, and censor to this little society, who 
will long have a grateful sense of his public spirit and 
exertions for their improvement and information. 

' I have the honour to be, Sir John, 
' Yours most sincerely, 

« ROBKRT RIDDEL.' 
To Sir John Sinclair, 
of Ulbster, Bart. 



nypochondria pervading every atom of both 
body and soul. This farm has undone my 
erjoyment of myself. It is a ruinous affair 
on all hands. But let it go to . . . ! I'll 
fight it out and be off with it. 

We have gotten a set of very decent players 
here just now. I have seen them an evening 
or two. David Campbell, in Ayr, wrote to 
me by the manager of the company, a Mr 
Sutherland, who is a man of apparent worth. 
On New-year-day evening I gave him the fol- 
lowing prologue, which he spouted to bis audi- 
ence with applause. 

No song nor dance I bring from yon great city, 
That queens it o'er our taste — the more's the pity: 
Though, by the bye, abroad why will you roam? 
Good sense and taste are natives here at home; 
But not for panegyric 1 appear, 
1 come to wisli you all a good new year! 
Old Father Time deputes me here before ye, 
Not for to preach, but tell his simple story : 
The sage grave ancient cough'd, and bade me say, 
" You're one year older this important day," 
If wiser too — lie hinted some suggestion, 
But twould be rude, you know, to ask the ques- 
tion; 
And with a would-be roguish leer and wink, 
He bade me on you press this one word — "think!" 

Ye sprightly jouths, quite flush with hope and 
spirit, 
Who think to storm the world by dint of merit, 
To you the dotard has a deal to say, 
In his sly, dry, sententious, proverb way! 
He bids you mind, amid your thoughtless rattle, 
That the first blow is ever half the battle ; 
That though some by the skirt may try to snatch 

him, 
Yet by the forelock is the hold to catch him, 
That whether doing, suffering, or forbearing, 
You may do miracles by persevering. 

Last, though not least in love, ye youthful fair, 
Angelic forms, high Heaven's peculiar care! 
To you old Bald- pate smooths his wrinkled brow, 
And humbly begs you'll mind the important — 

now ! 
To crown your happiness, he asks your leave, 
And offers, bliss to give and to receive. 



For our sincere, though haply weak endeavours, 
With grateful pride we own your many favours: 
And howsoe'er our tongues may ill reveal it, 
Believe our glowing bosoms truly feel it. 



I can no more, — If once I was clear of this 
. . . farm, I should respire more at ease. 



No. XCII. 

TO MRS DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, 25th January, 1790. 
gji has been owing to unremitting hurry of 



KRS. 53 

business that I have not written to you, ma- 
dam, long ere now. My health is greatly 
better, and I now begin once more to share in 
satisfaction and enjoyment with the rest of my 
fellow-creatures. 

Many tba-us, my much esteemed friend, for 
your kind letters ; but why will you make me 
run the risk of being contemptible and merce- 
nary in my own eyes ! When I pique myself 
on my independent spirit, I hope it is neither 
poetic licence, nor poetic rant ; and I am so 
flattered with the honour you have done me, 
in making me your compeer in friendship and 
friendly correspondence, that I cannot without 
pain, and a degree of mortification, be reminded 
of the real inequality between our situations. 

Most sincerely do I rejoice with you, dear 
madam, in the good news of Anthony. Not 
only your anxiety about his fate, but my own 
esteem for such a noble, warm-hearted, manly 
young fellow, in the little I had of his ac- 
quaintance, has interested me deeply in his 
fortunes. 

Falconer, the unfortunate author of the 
Shipwreck, which you so much admire, is no 
more. After weathering the dreadful catas- 
trophe he so feelingly describes in his poem, 
and after weathering many hard gales of for- 
tune, he went to the bottom with the Aurora 
frigate ! I forget what part of Scotland had 
the honour of giving him birth, but he was 
the son of obscurity and misfortune. - He 
was one of those daring adventurous spirits, 
which Scotland beyond any other country is 
remarkable for producing. Little does the 
fond mother think, as she hangs delighted over 
the sweet little leech at her bosom, where the 
poor fellow may hereafter wander, and what 
may be his fate. I remember a stanza in an 
old Scottish ballad, which, notwithstanding its 
rude simplicity, speaks feelingly to the heart:— 

" Little did my mother think, 

That day she cradled me, 
What land 1 was to travel in, 

Or what death I should die." 



* Falconer was iu early life a sea-boy, to use a word 
of Shakspeare, on board a man-of-war, in which capa- 
city he attracted the notice of Campbell, the author of 
the satire on Dr Johnson, entitled Lexiphanes, then 
purser of the ship. Campbell took him as his servant, 
and delighted in giving him instruction; and when 
Falconer afterwards acquired celebrity, bna'ted of him 
as his scholar. The editor had this information from a 
surgeon of a man-of-war, in 1777, who knew both 
Campbell and Falconer, and who himself perished soon 
after by shipwreck, on the coast of America. 

Though the death of Falconer happened so lately as 
1770 or 1771, yet in the biography prefixed by Dr An- 
derson to his works, in the complete edition of the 
Poets of Great Britain, it is said, " Of the family, birth- 
place, and education of William Falconer, there are no 
memorials." On the authority already given, it may be 
mentioned, that he was a native of one of the towns ou 
the coast of Fife, and that his parents, who had suffered 
some misfortunes, removed to one of the sea-ports of 
England, where they both died, soon after, of an epide. 
mic fever, leaving poor Falconer, then a boy, forlorn 
and destitute. In consequence of which he entered on 
board a man-of-war. These last circumstances are 
however less certain 



51 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Old Scottish songs are, you know, a favour- 
ite study and pursuit of mine ; and now I am 
on that subject, allow me to give you two 
stanzas of another old simple ballad, which I 
am sure will please you. The catastrophe of 
the piece is a poor ruined female, lamenting 
her fate. She concludes with this pathetic 
wish.: 

" O that, my father had ne'er on me smiled ; 
O that my mother had ne'er to me sung ! 
O that my cradle had never been rock'd ; 
But that 1 had died when 1 was young ! 

that the grave it were my bed ; 

My blankets were my winding sheet; 

The clocks and the worms my bedfellows a' ; 

And O sae sound as I should sleep !" 

I do not remember in all my reading to have 
met with any thing more truly the language of 
misery, than the exclamation in the last line. 
Misery is like love ; to speak its language 
truly, the author must have felt it. 

I am every day expecting the doctor to give 
your little god-son* the small-pox. They are 
rife in the country, and I tremble for his fate. 
By the way, I cannot help congratulating you 
on his looks and spirit. Every person who 
sees him, acknowledges him to be the finest, 
handsomest child he has ever seen. I am 
myself delighted with the manly swell of his 
little chest, and a certain miniature dignity in 
the carriage of his head, and glance of his fine 
black eye, which promise the undaunted gal- 
lantry of an independent mind. 

1 thought to have sent you some rhymes, 
but time forbids. 1 promise you poetry until 
you are tired of it, next time I have the hon- 
our of assuring you how truly I am, &c. 



No. XCIII. 

FROM MR CUNNINGHAM. 

2Sih January, 1790. 
In some instances it is reckoned unpardonable 
to quote any one's own words ; but the value 
I have for your friendship, nothing can more 
truly or more elegantly express, than 

" Time but the impression stronger makes, 
As streams their channels deeper wear." 

Having written to you twice without having 
heard from you, I am apt to think my letters 
have miscarried. My conjecture is only framed 
upon the chapter of accidents turning up 
against me, as it too often does, in the trivial, 
and I may with truth add, the more important 
affairs of life : but I shall continue occasionally 
to inform you what is going on among the 
circle of your friends in these parts. In these 



's second son, Frai 



days of merriment, I have frequentlv heard 
your name proclaimed at the jovial board — 
under the roof of our hospitable friend at 
Stenhouse Mills, there were no 

" Lingering moments number'd with care." 

I saw your Address to the New-year in the 
Dumfries Journal. Of your productions I 
shall say nothing, but my acquaintances allege 
that when your name is mentioned, which 
every man of celebrity must know often hap- 
pens, I am the champion, the Mcndoza, 
against all snarling critics, and narrow minded 
reptiles, of whom a few on this planet do crawl. 

With best compliments to your wife, and 
her black-eyed sister, I remair., yours, &c. 



No. XCIV. 

TO MR CUNNINGHAM. 

Ellisland, \3th February, 1790. 
I beg your pardon, my dear and much valued 
friend, for writing to you on this very un- 
fashionable, unsightly sheet — 

" My poverty but not my will consents." 

But to make amends, since of modish post 
I have none, except one poor widowed half 
sheet of gilt, which lies in my drawer among 
my plebeian foolscap pages, like the widow of 
a man of fashion, whom that unpolite scoun- 
drel, Necessity, has driven from Burgundy and 
Pine-apple, to a dish of Bohea, with the scan- 
dal-bearing help-mate of a village priest; or a 
glass of whisky-toddy, with the ruby nosed 
yoke-fellow of a foot-padding exciseman — I 
make a vow to inclose this sheet-full of epis- 
tolary fragments in that my only scrap of gilt- 
paper. 

I am indeed your unworthy debtor for three 
friendly letters. I ought to have written to 
you long ere now, but it is a literal fact, I have 
scarcely a spare moment. It is not that I 
will not write to you ; Miss Burnet is not 
more dear to her guardian angel, nor his grace 

the Duke of to the powers of , 

than my friend Cunningham to me. It is not 
that I cannot write to you ; should you doubt 
it, take the following fragment which was in- 
tended for you some time ago, and be convinced 
that I can antithesize sentiment, and circumvo. 
lute periods, as well as any coiner of phrase in 
the regions of philology. 



my dear Cunningham, December, 1789. 
Where are you ? And what are you doing ? 
Can you be that son of levity, who takes up a 
friendship as he takes up a fashion ; or are 
you, like some other of the worthiest fellows 



in the world, the victim of indolence, laden 
with fetters of ever-increasing weight. 

What strange beings we are ! Since we 
have a portion of conscious existence, equally 
capable of enjoying pleasure, happiness, and 
rapture, or of suffering pain, wretchedness, 
and misery, it is surely worthy of an inquiry, 
whether there be not such a thing as a science 
of life; whether method, economy, and fertility 
of expedients be not applicable to enjoyment ; 
and whether there be not a want of dexterity 
in pleasure, which renders our little scantling 
of happiness still less ; and a profuseness, an 
intoxication in bliss whic'a leads to satiety, 
disgust, and self-abhorrence. There is not a 
doubt but that health, talents, character, decent 
competency, respectable friends, are real sub- 
stantial blessings ; and yet do we not daily see 
those who enjoy many or all of these good 
things, contrive, notwithstanding, to be as un- 
happy as others to whose lot few of them have 
fallen. I believe one great source of this 
mistake or misconduct is owing to a certai.i 
stimulus, with us called ambition, which goads 
us up the hill of life, not as we ascend other 
eminences, for the laudable curiosity of view- 
ing an extended landscape, but rather for the 
dishonest pride of looking down on others of 
our fellow-creatures, seemingly diminutive, in 
humble stations, &e. &c. 



Sunday, llth February, 1790. 
God help me ! J am now obliged to join 

" Night to day, and Sunday to the week." 

If there be any truth in the orthodox faith of 

these churches, I am past redemption, 

and what is worse, to all eternity. I 

am deeply read in Boston's Fourfold Slate. 
Marshall on Sanctif cation, Guthrie's Trial of 
a Sauiny Interest, Sfc. but " There is no balm 
in Gilead, there is no physician there," for me; 
so I shall e'en turn Arminian, and trust to 
" Sincere, though imperfect obedience." 



Tuesday, 16th. 
Luckily for me I was prevented from the 
discussion of the knotty point at which I had 
just made a full stop. All my fears and cares 
are of this world : if there is another, an bon- 
est man has nothing to fear from it. I hate a 
man that wishes to be a Deist, but I fear, every 
fair, unprejudiced inquirer must in some degree 
be a sceptic It is not that there are any very 
staggering arguments against the immortality 
of man ; but like electricity, phlogiston, &c. 
the subject is so involved in darkness, that we 
want data to go upon. One thing frightens 
me much ; that we are to live for ever, seems 
too yood news to be true. That we are to enter 
into a new scene of existence, where, exempt 



'ERS. 55 

from want and pain, we shall enjoy ourselves 
and our friends without satiety or separation — 
how much should I be indebted to any one 
who could fully assure me that this was cer- 
tain ! 



My time is once more expired. I will write 
to Mr Cleghorn soon. God bless him and all 
his concerns ! And may all the powers that 
preside over conviviality and friendship, be 
present with all their kindest influence, when 
the bearer of this, Mr Syme, and you meet ! 
I wish I could also make one. — I think we 
should be 

Finally, brethren, farewell ! Whatsoever 
things are lovely, whatsoever things are gentle, 
whatsoever things are charitable, whatsoever 
things are kind, think on these things, and 
think on 

ROBERT BURNS. 



TO MR HILL. 

Ettisland, 2d March, 1790. 
At a late meeting of the Monklarid Friendly 
Society, it was resolved to augment their library 
by the following books, which you are to send 
us as soon as possible: — The Mirror, The. 
Lounyer, Man of Feeliny, Man of the World, 
(these for my own sake I wish to have by the 
first carrier) Knox's History of the Reformation; 
Rae's History of the Rebellion in 1715; any 
good History of the Rebellion in 1745 ; A Dis- 
play of the Session Act and Testimony, by 
Mr Gibh ; Herveifs Meditations ,• Beveridije's 
Thouyhts ; and another copy of Watson's 
Body if Divinity. 

I wrote to Mr A. Mastei ton three or font- 
months ago, to pay some money he owed me 
into your hands, and lately I wrote to you to 
the same purpose, but I have heard from nei- 
ther one nor other of you. 

In addition to the books I commissioned ui 
my last, I want very much, An Index to (he 
Excise Laws, or an abridyment of all the Sta- 
tutes now in force, relative to the Excise, by 
Jellinger Symons : 1 want three copies of this 
book ; if it is now to be had, cheap or dear, 
get it for me. An honest country neighbour 
of mine wants, too, A Family Bible, the larger 
the better, but second-handed, for he does not 
choose to give above ten shillings for the book. 
I want likewise for myself, as you can pick 
them up, second-handed or cheap, copies of 
Otway's Dramatic Works, Ben Johnson's, 
Dry den's, Cony i eve's, Wycher ley's, Vanbruyh's, 
Gibber's, or any Dramatic Works cf the more 
modern — Machlin, Gurrick, Fuote, Colman, or 
Sheridan. A good copy too of Mulier-i, in 



56 



BURNS' WORKS. 



French, I ir.urli want. Any other good dra- 
matic authors in that language I want also ; 
but comic authors chiefly, though I should 
wish to have Racine, Corneille, and Voltaire 
too. I am in no hurry for all, or any of these, 
but if you accidentally meet with them very 
cheap, get them for me 

And now, to quit the dry walk of business, 
how do you do, my dear friend ? and how is 
Mrs Hill? I trust if now and then not so 
elegantly handsome, at least as amiable, and 
sings as divinely as ever. My good-wife too 
has a charming " wood note wild ;" now could 
we four 



I am out of all patience with this vile world, 
for one thing. Mankind are by nature bene- 
volent creatures ; except in a few scoundrelly 
instances, I do not think that avarice ' of the 
good things we chance to have, is born with 
us ; but we are placed here amid so much 
nakedness, and hunger, and poverty, and want, 
that we are under a cursed necessity of study- 
ing selfishness, in order that we may exist ! 
Still there are, in every age, a few souls, that 
all the wants and woes of life cannot debase to 
selfishness, or even to the necessary alloy of 
caution and prudence. If ever I am in danger 
of vanity, it is when I contemplate myself on 
this side of my disposition and character. 
God knows I am no saint ; I have a whole 
host of follies and sins to answer for ; but if I 
could, and I believe I do it as far as I can, I 
would wipe away all tears from all eyes. Adieu ! 



TO MRS DUNLOP. 

EUisland, \0th April, 1790. 
I have just now, my ever-honoured friend, 
enjoyed a very high luxury, in reading a paper 
of the Lounger. You know my national pre- 
judices. I had often read and admired the 
Spectator, Adventurer, Rambler, and World; 
but still with a certain regret, that they were 
so thoroughly and entirely English. Alas ! 
nave I often said to myself, what are all the 
boasted advantages which my country reaps 
from the Union, that can counterbalance the 
annihilation of her independence, and even her 
very name ! I often repeat that couplet of my 
favourite poet, Goldsmith — 

'« States of native liberty possest, 

Though very poor, may yet be very blest." 

Nothing can reconcile me to the common 
terms, " English ambassador, English court," 
&c. And I am out of all patience to see that 
equivocal character, Hastings, impeached by 
" the Commons of England." Tell me, my 



friend, is this weak prejudice ? I believe in 
my conscience tuch ideas, as, " my country ; 
her independence ; her honour; the illustrious 
names that mark the history of my native 
land," &c. — I believe these, among your men 
of the world — men who in fact guide for the 
most part and govern our world, are looked on 
as so many modifications of wrongheadedness. 
They know the use of bawling out such terms, 
to rouse or lead the rabble ; but for their 
own private use, with almost all the able states- 
men that ever existed, or now exist, when they 
talk of right and wrong, they only mean proper 
and improper ; and their measure of conduct 
is, not what they ought, but what they dare. 
For the truth of this I shall not ransack the 
history of nations, but appeal to one of the 
ablest judges of men, and himself one of the 
h blest men that ever lived — the celebrated 
Karl of Chesterfield. In fact, a man who 
could thoroughly control his vices whenever 
they interfered with his interest, and who 
could completely put on the appearance of 
every virtue as often as it suited his purposes, 
n the Stanhopian plan, the perfect man ; a 
to lead nations. But are great abilities, 
complete without a flaw, and polished without 
a blemish, the standard of human excellence ? 
This is certainly the staunch opinion of men of 
the world; but I call on honour, virtue, and 
worth, to give the Stygian doctrine a loud ne- 
gative J However, this must be allowed, that, 
if you abstract from man the idea of an exist- 
ence beyond the grave, then, the true measure 
of human conduct is proper and improper: 
Virtue and vice, as dispositions of the heart, 
are in that case, of scarcely the import and 
vaiue to the world at large, as harmony and 
discord in the modifications of sound ; and a 
delicate sense of honour, like a nice ear for 
music, though it may sometimes give the pos- 
sessor an ecstasy unknown to the coarser 
organs of the herd, yet, considering the harsh 
gratings, and inharmonic jars, in this ill-tuned 
state of being, it is odds but the individual 
would be as happy, and certainly would be as 
much respected by the true judges of society, 
as it would then stand, without either a good 
ear or a good heart 

You must know I have just met with the 
Mirror and Lounger for the first time, and I 
am quite in raptures with them : I should be 
glad to have your opinion of some of the papers. 
The one I have just read, Lounger, No. 61, 
lias cost me more honest tears than any thing 
I have read of a long time. M'Kenzie has 
been called the Addison of the Scots, and in 
my opinion, Addison would not be hurt at the 
comparison. If he has not Addison's exquisite 
humour, he as certainly outdoes him in the 
tender and the pathetic His Man of Feeling 
(but I am not counsel-learned in the laws of 
criticism,) I estimate as the first performance 
in its kind I ever saw. From what books, 
moral or even pious, will the susceptible young 
mind receive impressions more congenial to 



humanity and kindness, generosity and bene- 
volence ; in short, more of all that ennobles 
the soul to herself, or endears her to others — 
than from the simple affecting tale of poor 
Harley. 

Still, with all my admiration of M'Kenzie's 
writings, I do not know if they are the fittest 
reading for a young man who is about to set 
out, as the phrase is, to make his way into life. 
Do not you think, madam, that among the few 
favoured of Heaven in the structure of their 
minds (for such there certainly are), there may 
be a purity, a tenderness, a dignity, an elegance 
of soul, which are of no use, nay, in some de- 
gree, absolutely disqualifying for the truly 
important business of making a man's way into 
life. If I am not much mistaken, my gallant 

young friend, A , is very much under 

these disqualifications ; and tor the young fe- 
males of a family I could mention, well may 
they excite parental solicitude, for I, a common 
acquaintance, or as my vanity will have it, an 
humble friend, have often trembled for a turn 
of mind which may render them eminently 
happy— or peculiarly miserable ! 

J have been manufacturing some verses 
lately; but as I have got the most hurried 
season of excise business over, I hope to have 
more leisure to transcribe any thing that may 
Bhow how much I have the honour to be, 
madam, yours, &c. 



No. XCVII. 
FROM MR CUNNINGHAM. 

Edinburgh, 25th May, 1790. 

MY DEAR BURNS, 

1 am much indebted to you for your last 
friendly, elegant epistle, and it shall make a 
part of the vanity of my composition, to retain 
your correspondence through life. It was 
remarkable your introducing the name of Miss 
Burnet, at a time when she was in such ill 
health ; and I am sure it will grieve your gen- 
tle heart, to hear of her being in the last stage 
of a consumption. Alas ! that so much beauty, 
innocence, and virtue, should be nipt in the 
bud. Hers was the smile of cheerfulness — of 
sensibility, not of allurement ; and her elegance 
of manners corresponded with the purity and 
elevation of her mind. 

How does your friendly muse ? I am sure 
6he still retains her affection for you, and that 
you have many of her favours in your posses- 
sion, which I have not seen. I weary much 
to hear from you. 



I beseech you do not forget me. 



'ERS. ft7 

I most sincerely hope all your concerns in 
life prosper, and that your roof-tree enjoys the 
blessing of good health. All your friends 
here are well, among whom, and not the least, 
is your acquaintance, Cleghorn. As for my- 
self, lam well, as far as 

will let a man be ; but with these I am happy. 



When you meet with my very agreeable 
friend J. Syme, give him for me a hearty 
squeeze, and bid, God bless him. 

Is there any probability of your being soon 
in Edinburgh ? 



No. XCVIII. 
TO DR MOORE. 

Dumfries, Excise- Office, Ulh July, 1790. 

snt, 
Coming into town this morning, to attend my 
duty in this office, it being collection-day, I 
met with a gentleman who tells me he is on 
his way to London ; so I take the opportunity 
of writing to you, as franking is at present 
under a temporary death. I shall have some 
snatches of leisure through the day, amid our 
horrid business and bustle, and I shall improve 
them as well as I can ; but let my letter be as 

stupid as , as miscellaneous as 

a news-paper, as short as a hungry grace-before- 
meat, or as long as a law-paper in the Douglas' 
cause ; as ill-spelt as country John's billet- 
doux, or as unsightly a scrawl as Betty Byre- 
mucker's answer to it ; I hope, considering 
circumstances, you will forgive it ; and as it 
will put you to no expense of postage, I shall 
have the less reflection about it. 

I am sadly ungrateful in not returning you 
my thanks for your most valuable present, 
Zeluco. In fact, you are in some degree 
blameable for my neglect. You were pleased 
to express a wish for my opinion of the work, 
which so Mattered me, that nothing less would 
serve my over -weening fancy, than a formal 
criticism on the book. In fact, I have gravely 
planned a comparative view of you, Fielding, 
Richardson, and Smollet, in your different 
qualities and merits as novel-writers. This, I 
own, betrays my ridiculous vanity, and I may 
probably never bring the business to bear; but 
I am fond of the spirit young Elihu shows in 
the book of Job — " And I said, I will also 
declare my opinion." I have quite disfigured 
my copy of the book with my annotations. I 
never take it up without at the same time 
taking my pencil, and marking with asterisks, 
parentheses, &c. wherever I meet with an ori- 
ginal thought, a nervous remark on life and 
manners, a remarkably well-turned period, or 
a character sketched with uncommon precision. 



BURKS' WORKS. 



Though I shall hardly think of fairly writ- 
ing out my " Comparative View," I shall 
certainly trouble you with my rem irks, such 
as they are. I have just received from my 
gentleman, that horrid summons in the book 
of Revelations — " That time shall he no 
" more !" 

The little collection of ponnets have some 
charming poetry in them. If indeed I am in- 
debted to the fair author for the book, and 
not, as I rather suspect, to a celebrated author 
of the other sex, I should certainly have writ- 
ten to the lady, with my grateful acknowledg- 
ments, and my own ideas of the comparative 
excellence of her pieces. I would do this last, 
not from any vanity of thinking that my re- 
marks could be of much consequence to Mrs 
Smith, but merely from my own feelings as an 
author, doing as I would be done by. 



No. XCIX. 
TO MRS DUNLOP. 

DEAR MADAM, 8th August, 1790. 

After a long day's toil, plague, and care, I 
sit down to write to you. Ask me not why I 
have delayed it so long? It was owing to 
hurry, indolence, and fifty other things; in 
short, to any thing — but forgetfulness of la 
plus aimable de son sexe. By the bye, you are 
indebted your best courtesy to me for this last 
compliment ; as I pay it from sincere convic- 
tion of its truth — a quality rather rare in com- 
pliments of these grinning, bowing, scraping 
times. 

Well, I hope writing to you, will ease a 
little my troubled soul. Sorely has it been 
bruised to-day ! A ci-devant friend of mine, 
and an intimate acquaintance of yours, has 
given my feelings a wound that I perceive will 
gangrene dangerously ere it cure. He has 
wounded my pride ! 



TO MR CUNNINGHAM. 

EUisland, 8th August, 1790. 
Forgive me my once dear, and ever dear 
friend, my seeming negligence. You cannot 
Bit down, and fancy the busy life I lead. 

I laid down my goose feather to beat my 
brains for an apt simile, and had some thoughts 
of a country grannam at a family christening : 
a bride on the market-day before her marriage ; 



i tavern-keeper at an election dinner j &c. &c. 



— hut the resemblance that hits my fancy best 
is, that blackguard miscreant, Satan, who 
roams about like a roaring lion, seeking, search- 
ing whom he may devour. However, tossed 
about as I am, if I choose (and who would not 
choose) to bind down with the crampets of at- 
tention, the brazen foundation of integrity, I 
may rear up the superstructure of Indepen- 
dence, and from its daring turrets, bid defiance 
to the storms of fate. And is not this a 
" consummation devoutly to be wished ?" 

" Thy spirit, independence, let me share ; 

Lord of the lion-heart, and eagle-eye ! 
Thy steps I follow with my bosom bare, 

Nor heed the storm that howls along the sk\ !" 

Are not these noble verses ? They are th& 
introduction of Smollet's Ode to Independence 
If you have not seen the poem, I will send it 
to you. How wretched is the man that hangs 
on by the favours of the great. To shrink 
from every dignity of man, at the approach 01 
a lordly piece of self-consequence, who, amid 
all his tinsel glitter, and stately hauteur, is but 
a creature formed as thou art — and perhaps 
not so well formed as thou art — came into the 
world a puling infant as thou didst, and must 
go out of it as all men must, a naked corse.* 



FROM DR BLACKLOCK. 

Edinburgh, 1st September, 1790. 
How does my dear friend i — much I languish 

to hear, 
His fortune, relations, and all that are dear ; 
With love of the Muses so strongly still smitten, 
/ meant this epistle in verse to have written ; 
But from age and infirmity, indolence flows, 
And this, much I fear, will restore me to prose. 
Anon to my business I wish to proceed, 
Dr Anderson guides and provokes me to speed, 
A man of integrity, genius and worth, 
Who soon a performance intends to set forth ; 
A work miscellaneous, extensive, and free, 
Which will weekly appear, by the name of the 

Bee. 
Of this from himself 1 inclose you a plan, 
And hope you will give what assistance you can. 
Entangled with business, and haunted with care, 
In which more or less human nature must share. 
Some moments of leisure the Biases will claim, 
A sacrifice due to amusement and fame. 
The Bee, which sucks honey from ev'ry gay 

bloom, 
With some rays of jour genius her work may 



* The preceding letter c: plains the feelings under 
vhich this was written. The strain of indignant in. 
'ective goes on some time longer in the style which. 



Whilst the flower whence her honey sponta- 
neously flows, 
As fragrantly smells, and as vig'rously grows. 

Now with kind gratulations 'tis time to con- 
clude, 

And add, your promotion is here understood; 

Thus free from the servile employ of excise, sir, 

We hope soon to hear you commence supervisor ; 

You then more at leisure, and free from control, 

May indulge the strong passion that reigns in 
your souL 

But I, feeble I, must to nature give way; 

Devoted cold death's and longevity's pre)'. 

From verses tho' languid my thoughts must un- 
bend, 

Tho' still I remain your affectionate friend, 

THO. BLACKLOCK. 



EXTRACT OF A LETTER 

FROM MR CUNNINGHAM. 

Edinburgh, It/A October, 1790. 
I lately received a letter from our friend 

B , — what a charming fellow lost to 

society — born to great expectations — with su- 
perior abilities, a pure heart and untainted 
morals, his fate in life has been hard indeed — 
still I am persuaded he is happy ; not like the 
gallant, the gay Lothario, but in the simplicity 
of rural enjoyment, unmixed with regret at the 
remembrance of " the days of other years." 

1 saw Mr Dunbar put, under the cover of 
your newspaper, Mr Wood's Poem on Thom- 
son. This poem has suggested an idea to me 
which you alone are capable to execute : — a 
song adapted to each season of the year. The 
task is difficult, but the theme is charming : 
should you succeed, I will undertake to get 
new music worthy of the subject. What a 
fine field for your imagination, and who is 
there alive can draw so many beauties from 
Nature and pastoral imagery as yourself ? It 
is, by the way, surprising that there does not 
exist, so far as I know, a proper song for each 
season. We have songs on hunting, fish- 
ing, skaiting, and one autumnal song, Harvest 
Home. As your muse is neither spavied nor 
rusty, you may mount the hill of Parnassus, 
and return with a sonnet in your pocket for 
every season. For my suggestions, if I be 
rude, correct me ; if impertinent, chastise me ; 
if presuming, despise me. But if you blend 
all my weaknesses, and pound out one grain 
of insincerity, then am I not thy 

Faithful friend, &c. 



m 



TO MRS DUNLOP. 

November. 1790. 
" As cold waters to a thirsty soul, so is good 
news from a far country." 

Fate has long owed me a letter of good news 
from you, in return for the many tidings of 
sorrow which I have received. In this in- 
stance I most cordially obey the apostle— 
" Rejoice with them that do rejoice" — for me 
to sing for joy is no new thing; but to preach 
for joy, as I have done in the commencement 
of this epistle, is a pitch of extravagant rapture 
to which I never rose before. 

I read your letter — I literally jumped for 
joy — How could such a mercurial creature as 
a poet, lumpishly keep his seat on the receipt 
of the best news from his best friend. I 
seized my gilt-headed Wangee rod, an instru- 
ment indispensably necessary, in my left hand, 
in the moment of inspiration and rapture ; and 
stride, stride — quick and quicker — out skipt I 
among the broomy banks of Nith, to muse 
over my joy by retail. To keep within the 
bounds of prose was impossible. Mis Little's 
is a more elegant, but not a more sincere com- 
pliment to the sweet little fellow than I, ex- 
tempore almost, poured out to him in the fol- 
lowing verses. See the poem — On the Birth- 
of a Posthumous Child. 



I am much flattered by your approbation of 
my Tarn o' Shanter, which you express in 
your former letter, though, by the bye, you 
load me in that said letter with accusations 
heavy and many; to all which I plead not 
guilty I Your book is, I hear, on the road to 
reach me. As to printing of poetry, when 
you prepare it for the press, you have only to 
spell it right, and place the capital letters pro- 
perly ; as to the punctuation, the printers do 
that themselves. 

I have a copy of 7am o' Shanter ready to 
send you by the first opportunity : it is too 
heavy to send by post. 

I heard of Mr Corbet lately. He, in con- 
sequence of your recommendation, is most 
zealous to serve me. Please favour me soon 
i an account of your good folks ; if Mrs H. 
is recovering, and the young gentleman doing 



TO MR CUNNINGHAM 

Ellisland, 23d January, 1791. 
Many happy returns of the season to you, my 
dear friend ! As many of the good things of 



m 



BURNS' WORKS. 



tbis life, as is consistent with, the usual mix- 
ture of good and evil in the cup of Being ! 

I have just finished a poem, which you will 
receive inclosed. It is my first essay in the 
way of tales. 

I have, these several months, been hammer- 
ing at an elegy on the amiable and accomplished 
Miss Burnet. I have got, and can get, no 
farther than the following fragment, on which, 
please give me your strictures. In all kinds 
of poetic composition, I set great store by 
your opinion ; but in sentimental verses, in the 
poetry of the heart, no Roman Catholic ever 
set more value on the infallibility of the Holy 
Father than I do on yours. 

I mean the introductory couplets as text 
verses. 



ON THE LATE MISS BURNET OF MONBODDO. 

Life ne'er exulted in so rich a prize, 
As Burnet, lovely from her native skies ; 
Nor envious death so triumph'd in a blow, 
As that which laid th' accomplish'd Burnet low. 

Thy form and mind, sweet maid, can I forget ; 
In richest ore the brightest jewel set! 
In thee, high Heaven above was truest shown, 
As by his noblest work the Godhead best is 
known. 

In vain ye flaunt in summer's pride, ye groves ; 

Thou crystal streamlet with thy flowery shore ; 
Ye woodland choir that chaunt your idle loves, 

Ye cease to charm ; Eliza is no more. 

Ye heathy wastes inmix'd with reedy fens, 
Ye mossy streams, with sedge and rushes 

Ye rugged cliffs o'erhanging dreary glens, 
To you I fly, ye with my soul accord. 

Princes whose cumb'rous pride was all their 
worth, 

Shall venal lays their pompous exit hail ; 
And thou, sweet excellence ! forsake our earth, 

And not a muse in honest grief bewail. 

We saw thee shine in youth and beauty's pride, 

And virtue's light that beams beyond the 

spheres ; 

But like the sun eclips'd at morning tide, 
Thou left'st us darkling in a world of tear 



Let me hear from j 



No. CV. 

TO MR PETER HILL. 

I7tk January, 1791 
Take these two guineas, and place them over 

against that account of yours ! which 

has gagged my mouth these five or six months ! 
I can as little write good things as apologies 
to the man I owe money to. O the supreme 
curse of making three guineas do the business 
of five ! Not all the labours of Hercules ; not 
all the Hebrews' three centuries of Egyptian 
bondage were such an insuperable business, 
such an task ! ! Poverty ! thou half- 
sister of death, thou cousin german of hell ! 
where shall I find force of execration equal to 
the amplitude of thy demerits? Oppressed 
by thee, the venerable ancient, grown hoary in 
the practice of eveiy virtue, laden with years 
and wretchedness, implores a little — little aid 
to support his existence, from a stony-hearted 
son of Mammon, whose sun of prosperity 
never knew a cloud ; and is by him denied and 
insulted. Oppressed by thee, the man of 
sentiment, whose heart glows with indepen- 
dence, and melts with sensibility, inly pines 
under the neglect, or writhes in bitterness of 
soul, under the contumely of arrogant, unfeel- 
ing wealth. Oppressed by thee, the son of 
genius, whose ill-starred ambition plants him 
at the tables of the fashionable and polite, 
must see, in suffering silence, his remark ne- 
glected, and his person despised, while shallow 
greatness, in his idiot attempts at wit, shall 
meet with countenance and applause. Nor is 
it only the family of worth that have reason to 
complain of thee; the children of folly and 
vice, though in common with thee, the off- 
spring of evil, smart equally under thy rod. 
Owing to thee, the man of unfortunate dis- 
position and neglected education, is condemned 
as a fool for his dissipation, despised and 
shunned as a needy wretch, when his follies, 
as usual, bring him to want : and when his un- 
principled necessities drive him to dishonest 
practices, he is abhorred as a miscreant, and 
perishes by the justice of his country. But 
far otherwise is the lot of the man of family 
and fortune. His early follies and extra- 
vagance, are spirit and fire; his consequent 
wants, are the embarrassments of an honest 
fellow; and when, to remedy the matter, he 
has gained a legal commission to plunder dis- 
tant provinces, or massacre peaceful nations, 
he returns, perhaps, laden with the spoils of 
rapine and murder ; lives wicked and respect- 
ed, and dies a and a lord. — Nay, 

worst of all, alas for helpless woman ! the 
needy prostitute, who has shivered at the cor- 
ner of the street, waiting to earn the wages of 
carnal prostitution, is left neglected and in- 
sulted, ridden down by the chariot wheels of 
thecoroneted rip, hurrying on to the guilty as- 
signation : she, who, without the same neees- 



sities to plead, riots nigbtly in the same guilty 
trade. 

Well ! divines may say of it what they 
please, but execration is to the mind, what 
phlebotomy is to the body ; the vital sluices of 
both are wonderfully relieved by their respec- 
tive evacuations. 



No. CVI. 

FROM A. F. TYTLER, ESQ. 

DEAR sir, Edinburgh, \2th March, 1791. 
Ala Hill yesterday put into my hands a sheet 
of Grose's Antiquities, containing a poem of 
yours, entitled Tarn o' Shunter, a tale. The 
very high pleasure I have received from the 
perusal of this admirable piece, I feel, demands 
the warmest acknowledgments. Hill tells me 
he is to send off a packet for you this day ; I 
cannot resist therefore putting on paper what 
I must have told you in person, had I met 
with you after the recent perusal of your tale, 
which is, that I feel I owe you a debt, which, 
if undischarged, would reproach me with in- 
gratitude. I have seldom in my life tasted of 
higher enjoyment from any work of genius, 
than I have received from this composition ; 
and I am much mistaken, if this poem alone, 
had you never written another syllable, would 
not have been sufficient to have transmitted 
your name down to posterity with high repu- 
tation. In the introductory part, where you 
paint the character of your hero, and exhibit 
him at the ale-house ingle, with his tippling 
cronies, you have delineated nature with a 
humour and naivete, that would do honour to 
Matthew Prior ; but when you describe the 
unfortunate orgies of the witches' sabbath, and 
the hellish scenery in which they are exhibited, 
you display a power of imagination, that Shak- 
speare himself could not have exceeded. I 
know not that I have ever met with a picture 
of more horrible fancy than the following : 

" Coffins stood round like open presses. 
That showed the dead in their last dresses : 
And by some devilish cantrip slight, 
Each in his cauld hand held a light " 

But when I came to the succeeding lines, my 
blood ran cold within me : 

" A knife a father's throat had mangled, 
Whom his ain son of life bereft; 
The grey hairs yet stuck ■*. the heft." 

And here, after the two following lines, 
" Wi' mair o' horrible and avvfu'," &c. the de- 
scriptive part might perhaps have been better 
closed, than the four lines which succeed, 
which, though good in themselves, yet as they 
derive all their merit from the satire they con- 
tain, are here rather misplaced among the cir- 



•EKS. fil 

cumstances of pure horror.* The initiation 
of the young witch is most happily described — 
the effect of her charms, exhibited in the 
dance, on Satan himself — the apostrophe— 
" Ah, little thought thy reverend grannie !" — 
the transport of Tam, who forgets his situation, 
and enters completely into the spirit of the 
scene, are all features of high merit, in this 
excellent composition. The only fault it pos- 
sesses, is, that the winding up, or conclusion 
of the story, is not commensurate to the inter- 
est which is excited by the descriptive and 
characteristic painting of the preceding parts. 
— The preparation is fine, but the result is not 
adequate. Eut for this, perhaps, you have a 
good apology — you stick to the popular tale. 

And now that I have got out my mind, and 
feel a little relieved of the weight of that debt 
I owed you, let me end this desultory scroll by 
an advice : — You have proved your talent for 
a species of composition, in which but a very 
few of our own poets have succeeded — Go on 
— write more tales in the same style ; you 
will eclipse Prior and La Fontaine ; for, with 
equal wit, equal power of numbers, and equal 
naivete of expression, you have a bolder, and 
more vigorous imagination. 

I am, dear Sir, with much esteem, 
Yours, &c. 



No. CVII. 
TO A. F. TYTLER, ESQ. 



Nothing less than the unfortunate accident 1 
have met with, could have prevented my 
grateful acknowledgments for your letter. His 
own favourite poem, and that an essay in a 
walk of the muses entirely new to him, where 
consequently his hopes and fears were in the 
most anxious alarm for his success in the at- 
tempt ; to have that poem so much applauded 
by one of the first judges, was the most delici- 
ous vibration that ever trilled along the heart- 
strings of a poor poet. However, providence, 
to keep up the proper proportion of evil with 
the good, which it seems is necessary in this 
sublunary state, thought proper to check my 
exultation by a very serious misfortune. A 
day or two after I received your letter, my 
horse came down with me and broke my right 
urn. As this is the first service my arm has 
done me since its disaster, I find myself unable 
to do more than just in general terms to thank 
you for this additional instance of your patron- 
age and friendship. As to the faults you 
detected in the piece, they are truly there : one 
of them, the hit at the lawyer and priest, I 
shall cut out ; as to the falling off in the catas- 
trophe, for the reason you justly adduce, it 



62 



BURNS' WORKS. 



cannot easily be remedied. Your approbation, 
Fir, has given me such additional spirits to 
persevere in this species of poetic composition, 
that J am already revolving two or three stories 
in my fancy. If I can bring these floating 
ideas to bear any kind of embodied form, it 
will give me an additional opportunity of as- 
suring you how much I have the honour to 



No. CVII-I. 

TO MRS DUNLOP. 

EUisland, 1th February, 1791. 
When I tell you, madam, that by a fall, not 
from my horse but with my horse, I have been 
a cripple some time, and that this is the first 
*'ay my arm and hand have been able to serve 
me in writing; you will allow that it is too 
good an apology for my seemingly ungrateful 
silence. I am now getting better, and am able 
to rhyme a little, which implies some tolerable 
ease ; as I cannot think that the most poetic 
genius is able to compose on the rack. 

I do not remember if ever I mentioned to 
you my having an idea of composing an elegy 
en the late Miss Burnet of Monboddo. I had 
the honour of being pretty well acquainted 
with her, and have seldom felt so much at the 
loss of an acquaintance, as when I heard that 
so amiable and accomplished a piece of God's 
works was no more. I have as yet gone no 
farther than the following fragment, of which 
please let me have your opinion. You know 
that elegy is a subject so much exhausted, that 
any new idea on the business is not to be ex- 
pected ; 'tis well if we can place an old idea 
in a new light. How Far I have succeeded as 
to this last, you will judge from what follows— 

(Here follows the Eleyy, fyc. addiny this verse. , 

The parent's heart that nestled fond in thee, 
That heart how sunk, a prey to grief and care ! 

So deckt the woodbine sweet yon aged tree, 
So from it ravaged, leaves it bleak and bare. 



I have proceeded no further. 

Your kind letter, with your kind remem- 
brance of your god-son, came safe. This last, 
madam, is scarcely what my pride can bear. 
As to the little fellow, he is, partiality apart, 
the finest boy I have of a long time seen. He 
is now seventeen months old. has the small- 
pox and measles over, has cut several teeth, 
and yet never had a grain of doctor's drugs in 
his bowels. 

I am truly happy to hear that the "little 
floweret" is blooming so fresh and fair, and that 
me "mother plant" is rather recovering her 



drooping head. Soon and well may her " cri.el 
wounds" be healed ! I have written th'js far 
with a good deal of difficulty. When I get a 
little abler you shall hear farther from, 

Madam, yours, && 



No. CIX. 
TO LADY W. M. CONSTABLE. 

ACKNOWLEDGING A PRESENT OF A VALUABLE 
SNUFF-BOX, WITH A FINE PICTURE OF MARY, 
QUEEN OF SCOTS, ON THE LID. 

MY LADY, 

Nothing less than the unlucky accident of 
having lately broken my right arm, could have 
prevented me, the moment I received your 
ladyship's elegant present by Mrs Miller, from 
returning you my warmest and most grateful 
acknowledgments. I assure your ladyship, I 
shall set it apart ; the symbols of religion shall 
only be more sacred. In the moment of poetic 
composition, the box shall be my inspiring 
genius. When I would breathe the compre- 
hensive wish of benevolence for the happiness 
of others, I shall recollect your ladyship ; when 
I would interest my fancy in the distresses 
incident to humanity, I shall remember the 
unfortunate Mary. 



No. CX. 
MRS GRAHAM, OF FINTRY. 

MADAM, 

Whether it is that the story of our Mary, 
Queen of Scots, has a peculiar effect on the 
feelings of a poet, or whether I have, in the 
inclosed ballad, succeeded beyond my usual 
poetic success, I know not : but it has pleased 
me beyond any effort of my muse for a good 
while past ; on that account I inclose it parti- 
cularly to you. It is true, the purity of my 
motives may be suspected. I am already 

deeply indebted to Mr G 's goodness ; 

and, what in the usual ways of men, is of infi- 
nitely greater importance, Mr G. can do me 
service of the utmost importance in time to 
come. I was born a poor dog ; and hosvever 
I may occasionally pick a better bone than I 
used to do, I know I must live and die poor-, 
but I will indulge the flattering faith that my 
poetry will considerably outlive my poverty; 
and without any fustain affection of spirit, I 
can promise and affirm, that it must be no or- 
dinary craving of the latter shall ever make me 
do any thing injurious to the honest fame of 
the former. Whatever may be my failings, 
for failings are a part of human nature, may 
they ever be those of a generous heart, and an 
independent arind. It is no fault of mine 



LETTERS. 



03 



that T was born to dependence ; nor is it Mr j day ; which, I understand, some friends in 



G "a chiefest praise that he can com 

mand influence ; bur it is his merit to bestow, 
not only with the kindness of a brother, but 
with the politeners of a gentleman ; and I 
trust it shall be mine, to receive wirh thank- 
fulness and remember with undiminished gra- 
titude. 



FROM THE REV. G. BA1RD. 

sir, London, 8th February, 1791. 

I trouble you with this letter, to inform you that 
I ain in hopes of being able very soon to bring 
to the press a new edition (long since talked 
of) of Michael Bruce's Poems. The profits of 
the edition are to go to his mother — a woman 
of eighty years of age — poor and helpless. 
The poems are to be published by subscription ; 
nnd it may be possible, I think, to make out a 
2s. 6d. or 3s. volume, with the assistance of 
a f ew hitherto unpublished verses, which I have 
got from the mother of the poet. 

But the design I have in view in writing to 
you, is not merely to inform you of these facts, 
it is to solicit the aid of your name and pen in 
support of the scheme. The reputation of 
Bruce is already high with every reader of 
classical taste, and I shall be anxious to guard 
against tarnishing his character, by allowing 
any new poems to appear that may lower it, 
For this purpose, the MSS. lam in possession 
of, have been submitted to the revision of some 
whose critical talents I can trust to, and I 
mean still to submit them to others. 

May I beg to know, therefore, if you will 
take the trouble of perusing the MSS. — of 
giving your opinion, and suggesting what cur- 
tailments, alterations, or amendments, occur 
to you as advisable ? And will you allow us 
to let it be known, that a few lines by you will 
be added to the volume? 

I know the extent of this request. — It is 
bold to make it. But I have this consolation, 
that though you see it proper to refuse it, you 
will not blame me for having made it ; you 
will see my apology in the motive. 

May I just add, that Michael Bruce is one 
in whose company, from his past appearance, 
you would not. I am convinced, blush to be 
found ; and as I would submit every line of 
his that should now be published, to your own 
criticisms, you would be assured that nothing 
derogatory either to him or you, would be ad- 
mitted in that appearance he may make in 
future. 

You have already paid an honourable tri- 
bute to kindred genius in Fergusson — I fondly 
hope that the mother of Bruce will experience 
your patronage. 

I wish to have the subscription papers cir- 
culated by the 14th of March, Bruce's birth- 



Scotland talk this year of observing — at that 
time it will be resolved, I imagine, to place a 
plain, humble stone over his grave. This, at 
least, I trust you will agree to do — to furnish, 
in a iew couplets, an inscription for it. 

On those points may I solicit an answer as 
early as possible; a short delay might disap- 
point us in procuring that relief to the mother, 
which is the object of the whole. 

You will be pleased to address for me under 
cover to the Duke of A thole, London. 



P. S. — Have you ever seen an engraving 
published here some time ago from one of 
your poems, " O thou pale Orb." If you have 
not, I shall have the pleasure of sending it to 
you. 



No. CXII. 
TO THE REV. G. BAIRD. 

IN ANSWER TO THE FOREGOING. 

Why did you, rny dear sir, write to me in such 
a hesitating style, on the business cf poor 
Bruce ? Don't I know, and have I not felt, 
the many ills, the peculiar ills that poetic fleso 
is heir to? You shall have your choice of all 
the unpublished poems I have ; and had your 
letter had my direction so as to have reached 
me sooner (it only came to my hand this mo- 
ment), I should have directly put you out of 
suspense on the subject. I only ask, that 
some prefatory advertisement in the book, as 
well as the subscription bills, may bear, that 
the publication is solely for the benefit of 
Bruce's mother. I would not put it in the 
power of ignorance to surmise, or malice to 
insinuate, that I clubbed a share in the work 
from mercenary motives. Nor need you give 
me credit for any remarkable generosity in my 
part of the business. I have such a host of 
peccadilloes, failings, follies, and backslidings 
(any body but myself might perhaps give some 
of them a worse appellation), that by way of 
some balance, however trifling, in the account, 
I am fain to do any good that occurs in my 
very limited power to a fellow- creature, just 
for the selfish purpose of clearing a little the 
vista of retrospection. 



No. CXIII. 
TO DR MOORE. 



Ellisland, 28(h February, 1791 
I do not know, sir, whether you are a sub- 
scriber to Grose's Antiquities of Scotland. If 



04. 



BURNS' WORKS. 



you are, the incased poem will not be alto- 
gether rew to you. Captain Grose did me 
the favour to send me a dozen copies of the 
proof-sheet, of which this is one. Should you 
have read the piece before, still this will an- 
swer the principal end I have in view : it will 
give me another opportunity of thanking you 
for all your goodness to the rustic bard ; and 
also ©f showing you, that the abilities you have 
been pleased to commend and patronize are 
still employed in the way you wish. 

The Elegy on Captain Henderson, is a tri- 
bute to the memory of a man I loved much. 
Poets have in this the same advantage as 
Roman Catholics ; they can be of service to 
their frieruls after they have past that bourne 
where all other kindness ceases to be of any 
avail. Whether, after all, either the one or 
the other be of any real service to the dead, 
is, I fear, very problematical ; but I am sure 
they are highly gratifying to the living : and as 
a very orthodox text, I forget where in Scrip- 
ture, says, " whatsoever is not of faith, is 
sin ;" so say I, whatsoever is not detrimental 
to society, and is of positive enjoyment, is of 
God, the giver of all good things, arid ought 
to be received and enjoyed by his creatures 
with thankful delight. As almost all my re- 
ligious tenets originate from my he-art, I am 
wonderfully pleased with the idea, that I can 
still keep up a tender intercourse with the 
dearly beloved friend, or still more dearly be- 
hoved mistress, who is gone to the world of 
spirits. 

The ballad on Queen Mary whs begun 
while I was busy with Percy's Reliqnes of 
English Poetry. By the way, how much is 
every honest heart, which has a tincture of 
Caledonian prejudice, obliged to you for your 
glorious story of Buchanan and Targe. 'Twas 
an unequivocal proof of your loyal gallantry of 
soul, giving Targe the victory. I should have 
been mortified to the ground if you had not. 



I have just read over, once more of many 
times, your Zeluco. I marked with my pen- 
cil, as I went along, every passage that pleased 
me particularly above the rest ; and one, or 
two, I think, which, with humble deference, I 
am disposed to think unequal to the merits of 
the book. I have sometimes thought to tran- 
scribe these marked passages, or at least so 
much of them as to point where they are, and 
send them to you. Original strokes that 
strongly depict the human heart, is your and 
Fielding's province, beyond any other novelist 
I have ever perused. Richardson indeed 
might perhaps be excepted ; but, unhappily, 
his dramatis persona are beings of some other 
world ; and however they may captivate the 
unexperienced, romantic, fancy of a boy or a 
girl, they will ever, in proportion as we have 
made human nature our study, dissatisfy our 
riper minds 



As to my private concerns, I am comg orr r 
a mighty tax-gatherer before the Lord, and 
have lately had the interest to get myself ranked 
on the list of excise as a supervisor. I am not 
yef employed as such, but in a few years I 
shall fall into the file of supervisorship by 
seniority. I have had an immense loss in the 
death of the Earl of Glencairn ; the patron 
from whom all my fame and good fortune took 
its rise. Independent of my grateful attach- 
ment to him, which was indeed so strong that 
it pervaded my very soul, and was entwined 
with the thread of my existence ; so soon as 
the prince's friends had got in (and every dog, 
you know, has his day), my getting forward in 
the excise would have been an easier business 
than otherwise it will be. Though this was a 
consummation devoutly to he wished, yet, 
thank Heaven, I can live and rhyme as I am ; 
and as to my boys, poor little fellows ! if I 
cannot place them on as high an elevation in 
life as I could wish, I shall, if I am favoured 
so much of the Disposer of events as to see 
that period, fix them on as broad and indepen- 
dent a basis as possible. Among the many 
wise adages which have been treasured up by 
our Scottish ancestors, this is one of the best, 
Belter be the head of the commonalty, as the tail 
o' the gentry. 

But I am got on a subject, which, however 
interesting to me, is of no manner of conse- 
quence to you ; so I shall give you a short poem 
on the other page, and close this with assuring 
you how sincerely I have the honour to be, 
yours, &c. 



Written on the blank leaf of a book, which 
I presented to a very young lady, whom I had 
formerly characterised under the denomination 
of The Rose-bud. 



No. CXIV. 

FROM DR MOORE. 

dear sir, London, 29th March, 1*791- 
Youk letter of the 28th of February I received 
only two days ago, and this day I had the 
pleasure of waiting on the Rev. Mr Baird, at 
the Duke of A thole's, who had been so oblig- 
ing as to transmit it to me, with the printed 
verses on Alloway Church, the Elegy on Capt. 
Henderson, and the Epitaph. There are many 
poetical beauties in the former : what I parti- 
cularly admire are the three striking similes 
from 

" Or like the snow falls in the river," 

and the eight lines which begin with 

" By this time he was cross the ford :" 



«o exquisitely expressive of the superstitious 
impressions of the country. And the twenty- 
two lines from 

*' Coffins stood round like open presses," 

which, in my opinion, are equal to the ingre- 
dients of Shakspeare's cauldron in Macbeth. 

As for the I legy, the chief merit of it con- 
sists in the very graphical description of the 
objects belonging to the country in which the 
poet writes, and which none but a Scottish 
poet could have described, and none but a real 
poet, and a clo.-e observer of Nature could 
have so described. 



There is something original, and to me won- 
derfully pleasing, in the I'pilaph. 

I remember you once hinted before, what 
you repeat in your last, that you had made 
some remarks on Zeluco, on the margin. I 
should be very glad to see them, and regret 
you did not send them before the last edition, 
which is just published. Pray transcribe them 
for me, I sincerely value your opinion very 
highly, and pray do not suppress one of those 
in which you censure the sentiment or expres- 
sion. Trust me it will break no squares be- 
tween us — I am not akin to the Bishop of 
Grenada. 

I must now mention what has been on my 
mind for some time : I cannot help thinking 
you imprudent in scattering abroad so many 
copies of your verses. It is most natural to 
give a few to confidential friends, particularly 
to those who are connected with the subject, 
or who are perhaps themselves the subject, but 
this ought to be done under promise not to 
give other copies. Of the poem you sent me 
on Queen Alary, I refused every solicitation 
for copies, but I lately saw it in a newspaper. 
My motive for cautioning you on this subject 
is, that I wish to engage you to collect all your 
fugitive pieces, not already printed, and after 
they have been re-considered, and polished to 
the utmost of your power, I would have you 
publish them by another subscription ; in pro- 
moting of which 1 will exert myself with plea- 
sure. 

In your future compositions, I wish you 
would use the modern English. You have 
shown your powers in.. Scottish sufficiently. 
Although in certain subjects it gives additional 
zest to the humour, yet it is lost to the Eng- 
lish ; and why should you write only for a part 
of the island, when you can command the ad- 
miration of the whole. 

If you chance to write to my friend Mrs 
Dunlop of Dunlop, I beg to be affectionately 
remembered to her. She must not judge of 
the warmth of my sentiments respecting her, 
by the number of my letters ; I hardly ever 
write a line but on business : and I do not 
know that I should have scribbled all this to 



^ERS. 65 

you, but for the business part, that is, to insti- 
gate you to a new publication ; and to tell you 
that when you think you have a sufficient 
number to make a volume, you should set 
your friends on getting subscriptions. I vvisa 
I could have a few hours conversation with 
you — I have many things to say which I can- 
not write. If I ever go to Scotland, I will let 
you know, that you may meet me at your 
own house, or my friend Mrs Hamilton's, or 
both. 

Adieu, my dear Sir, &c 



TO THE REV. ARCH. ALISON. 



EUisland, i 



r Dumfries, Wh Feb. 1791. 



You must, by this time, have set me down 33 
one of the most ungrateful of men. You did 
me the honour to present me with a book 
which does honour to science and the intellec- 
tual powers of man, and I have not even so 
much as acknowledged the receipt of it. The 
fact is, you yourself are to blame for it. Flat- 
tered as I was by your telling me that you 
wished to have my opinion of the work, the 
old spiritual enemy of mankind, who knows 
well that vanity is one of the sins that most 
easily beset me, put it into my head to ponder 
over the performance with the look-out of a 
critic, and to draw up forsooth a deep learned 
digest of strictures on a composition, of which, 
in fact, until I read the book, I did not even 
know the first principles. I own, sir, that at 
first glance, several of your propositions star- 
tled me as paradoxical. That the martial 
clangor of a trumpet had something in it vastly 
more grand, heroic, and sublime, than the 
twingle twangle of a Jews' harp ; that the deli- 
cate flexure of a rose-twig, when the half-blown 
flower is heavy with the tears of the dawn, 
was infinitely more beautiful and elegant than 
the upright stub of a burdock; and that from 
something innate and independent of all asso- 
ciation of ideas ; — these I had set down as 
irrefragible, orthodox truths, until perusing 
your book shook my faith. — In short, sir, ex- 
cept Euclid's Elements of Geometry, which I 
made a shift to unravel by my father's fire-side, 
in the winter evening of the first season I held 
the plough, I never read a book which gave 
me such a quantum of information, and added 
so much to my stock of ideas as your "Essays 
on the Principles of Taste." One thing, sir, 
you must forgive my mentioning as an uncom- 
mon merit in the work, I mean the language. 
To clothe abstract philosophy in elegance of 
style, sounds something like a contradiction in 
terms ; but you have convinced me that they 
are quite compatible. 

I inclose you some poetic bagatelles 0/ my 



,(56 



BURNS' WORKS. 



!ate composition. The one in print is my 
first essay in the \\ ay of telling a tale. 

I am, Sir, &c. 



TO MR CUNNINGHAM. 

12th March, 1791. 
If the foregoing piece be worth your strictures, 
let me have them. For my own part, a thing 
that I have just composed, always appears 
through a double portion of that partial medium 
in which an author will ever view his own 
works. I believe, in general, novelty has 
something in it that inebriates the fancy, and 
not unfrequently dissipates and fumes away 
like other intoxication, and leaves the poor 
patient, as usual, with an aching heart. A 
striking instance of this might be adduced, in 
• the revolution of many a hymeneal honeymoon. 
But lest I sink into stupid prose, and so sacri- 
legiously intrude on the office of my parish 
priest, I shall fill up the page in my own way, 
and give you another song of my late compo- 
sition, which will appear, perhaps, in Johnson's 
work, as well as the former. 

You must know a beautiful Jacobite air, 
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 
When political combustion ceases to be the 
object of princes and patriots, it then, you 
know, becomes the lawful prey of historians 
and poets. 



By yon castle wa', at the close of the day, 

I heard a man sing, though his head it was grey ; 
And as he was singing, the tears fast down came — 
There'll never be peace 'till Jamie comes hame. 

The church is in ruins, the state is in jars, 
Delusions, oppressions, arid murderous wars : 
We dare na' weel say't, but we ken wha's to 

blame — 
There'll never be peace 'till Jamie comes hame. 

My seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword, 
And now I gieet round their green beds in the 
yerd: 

I I brack the sweet heart o' ray faithfu' auld dame— 
There'll never be peace 'till Jamie comes hame. 

Now life is a burden that bows me down, 
Sin' I tint my bairns, and he tint his crown ; 
But 'till my last moment my words are the same — 
There'll never be peace 'till Jamie. comes hame. 



If you like the air, and if the stanzas hit 
your fancy, you cannot imagine, my dear friend, 
how much you would oblige me, if, by the 
charms of your delightful voice, you would 



give my honest effusion to "the memory of 
joys that are past," to the few friends whom 
you indulge in that pleasure. But I have 
scribbled on 'till I hear the clock has intimated 
the near approach of 

" That hour o 1 night's black arch the key-stane."— 

So good-night to you ! Sound be your sleep, 
and delectable your dreams ! Apropos, how 
do you like this thought in a ballad, I have 
just now on the tapis ? 

I look to the west, when I gae to rest, 
That happy my dreams and my slumbers may 
be: 

For far in the west is he I lo'e best — 
The lad that is dear to my baby and me ! 



Good night, once more, and God bless you ! 



No. CXVIL 
TO MRS DUNLOP. 

EUisland, 1M April, 1791. 
I am once more able, my honoured friend, to 
return you, with my own hand, thanks for the 
many instances of your friendship, and parti- 
cularly for your kind anxiety in this last dis- 
aster that my evil genius had in store for me. 
However, life is chequered — joy and sorrow — 
for on Saturday morning last, Mrs Burns 
made me a present of a fine boy ; rather stouter 
but not so handsome as your god-son was at 
his time of life. Indeed I look on your little 
namesake to be my chef oVceuvrem that species 
of manufacture, as I look on Tarn o' Shunter 
to be my standard performance in the poetical 
line. 'Tis true, both the one and the other 
discover a spice of roguish waggery, that 
might, perhaps, be as well spared; but then 
they also show, in my opinion, a force of 
genius, and a finishing polish, that I despair of 
ever excelling. Mrs Burns is getting stout 
again, and laid as lustily about her to-day at 
breakfast, as a reaper from the corn -ridge. 
That is the peculiar privilege and blessing of 
our hale, sprightly damsels, that are bred 
among the hay and heather. We cannot hope 
for that highly polished mind, that charming 
delicacy of soul, whidh is found among the 
female world in the more elevated stations of 
life, and which is certainly by far the most be- 
witching charm in the famous cestus of Venus. 
It is indeed such an inestimable treasure, that 
where it can be had in its native heavenly 
purity, unstained by some one or other of the 
many shades of affectation, and unalloyed by 
some one or other of the many species of ca- 
price, I declare to Heaven, I should think it 
cheaply purchased at the expense of every 
other earthly good ! But as this angelic crea- 



tare is, 1 am afraid, extremely rare in any station 
and rank of life, and totally denied to such an 
humble one as mine ; we meaner mortals must 
put up with the next rank of female excellence 
—as fine a figure and face we can produce as 
e.ny rank of life whatever; rustic, native 
*-race ; unaffected modesty, and unsullied pu- 
rity ; nature's mother-wit, and the rudiments 
of taste ; a simplicity of soul, unsuspicious of, 
because unacquainted with, the crooked ways 
of a selfish, interested, disingenuous world; 
— and the dearest charm of all the rest, a yield- 
ing sweetness of disposition, and a generous 
warmth of heart, grateful for love on our part, 
and ardently glowing with a more than equal 
return ; these, with a healthy frame, a sound 
vigorous constitution, which your high ranks 
can scarcely ever hope to enjoy, are the charms 
of lovely woman in my humble walk of life. 

This is the greatest effort my broken arm 
has yet made. Do, let me hear by first post, 
how cher petit Monsieur comes on with his 
small-pox. May Almighty Goodness pre- 
serve and restore him ! 



TO MR CUNNINGHAM. 

11th June, 1791. 

Let me interest you, my dear Cunningham, 
in behalf of the gentleman, who waits on you 
with this. He is a Mr Clarke, of Moffat, 
principal schoolmaster there, and is at present 

suffering severely under the of 

one or two powerful individuals of his em- 
ployers. He is accused of harshness to . . 

. . . that were placed under his care. 
God help the teacher, if a man of sensibility 
and genius, and such is my friend Clarke, 
when a booby father presents him with his 
booby son, and insists on lighting up the rays 
of science, in a fellow's head whose skull is 
impervious and inaccessible by any other way 
than a positive fracture with a cudgel ; a fellow 
whom, in fact, it savours of impiety to attempt 
making a scholar of, as he has been marked a 
blockhead in the book of fate, at the almighty 
fiat of his Creator. 

The patrons of Moffat school are, the mi- 
nisters, magistrates, and town-council of Edin- 
ourgh, and as the business comes now before 
them, let me beg my dearest friend to do every 
thing in his power to serve the interests of a 
man of genius and worth, and a man whom I 
particularly respect and esteem. You know 
some good fellows among the magistracy and 

council, but 

particularly, you have much to say with a re- 
verend gen'ieinan to whom you have the hou- 
our of being very nearly related, and whom 
this country and age have had the honour to 
produce. » need not name the historian of 



ERS. 67 

Charles V.* I tell him, through the medium 
of his nephew's influence, that Mr Clarke is 
a gentleman who will not disgrace even his 
patronage. I know the merits of the cause 
thoroughly, and say it, that my friend is falling 
a sacrifice to prejudiced ignorance, and . . 
. . . God help the children of dependence ! 
Hated and persecuted by their enemies, and 
too often, alas ! almost unexceptionably, re- 
ceived by their friends with disrespect and 
reproach, under the thin disguise of cold 
civility and humiliating advice. O to be a 
sturdy savage, stalking in the pride of his in- 
dependence, amid the solitary wilds of his 
deserts, rather than in civilized life, helplessly 
to tremble for a subsistence, precarious as the 
caprice of a fellow-creature! Every man has 
his virtues, and no man is without his failings ; 
and curse on that privileged plain-dealing of 
friendship, which in the hour of my calamity, 
cannot reach forth the helping hand without at 
the same time pointing out those failings, and 
apportioning them their share in procuiing my 
present distress. My friends, for such the 
world calls ye, and such ye think yourselves 
to be, pass by virtues if you please, but do, 
also, spare my follies : the first will witness in 
my breast for themselves, and the last wLl give 
pain enough to the ingenuous mind without 
you. And since deviating more or less from 
the paths of propriety and rectitude, must be 
incident to human nature, do thou, fortune, 
put it in my power, always from myself, and 
of myself, to bear the consequences of those 
errors. I do not want to be independent that 
I may sin, but I want to be independent in my 
sinning. 

To return in this rambling letter to the 
subject I set out with, let me recommend my 
friend, Mr Clarke, to your acquaintance and 
good offices ; his worth entitles him to the one, 
and his gratitude will merit the other. I long 
much to hear from you. Adieu. 



FROM THE EARL OF BUCHAN. 

Dryburgh Abbey, nth June, 1791. 
Lord Buchan has the pleasure to invite Mr 
Burns to make one at the coronation of the bust 
of Thomson, on Ednam Hill, on the 22d of Sep- 
tember ; for which day perhaps his muse may 
inspire an ode suited to the occasion. Sup- 
pose Mr Burns should, leaving the Nith, go 
across the country, and meet the Tweed at 
the nearest point from his farm — and, wander- 
ing along the pastoral banks of Thomson's 
pure parent stream, catch inspiration on the 
devious walk, till he finds Lord Buchan sitting 
on the ruins of Dryburgh. There the com- 



68 



BURNS' WORKS. 



mendator will give him a hearty welcome, and 
try to light his lamp at the pure flame of na- 
tive genius, upon the altar of Caledonian vir- 
tue. This poetical perambulation of the 
Tweed, is a thought of the late Sir Gilbert 
Elliot's and of Lord Minto's, followed out by 
his accomplished grandson, the present Sir 
Gilbert, who, having been with Lord Buchan 
lately, the project was renewed, and will, they 
hope, be executed in the manner proposed. 



No. CXX. 
TO THE EARL OF BUCHAN. 

MY LOKD, 

Language sinks under the ardour of my feel- 
ings, when I would thank your lordship for 
the honour you have done me in inviting me 
to make one at the coronation of the bust of 
Thomson. In my first enthusiasm in reading 
the card you did me the honour to write me, I 
overlooked every obstacle, and determined to 
go ; but I fear it will not be in my power. A 
week or two's absence, in the very middle of 
my harvest, is what I much doubt I dare not 
venture on. 

Your lordship hints at an ode for the occa- 
sion : but who would write after Collins ? I 
read over his verses to the memory of Thom- 
son, and despaired — I got indeed to the length 
of three or four stanzas, in the way of address 
to the shade of the bard, on crowning his bust. 
I shall trouble your lordship, with the sub- 
joined copy of them, which, I am afraid, will 
be but too convincing a proof how unequal I 
am to the task. However, it affords me an 
opportunity of approaching your lordship, and 
declaring how sincerely and gratefully I have 
the honour to be, &c. 



No. CXXI. 
FROM THE SAME. 
Dryburgh Abbey, 18th September, 1791. 

SIR, 

Your address to the shade of Thomson has been 
well received by the public ; and though I should 
disapprove of your allowing Pegasus to ride with 
you off the field of your honourable and use- 
ful profession, yet I cannot resist an impulse 
which I feel at this moment to suggest to your 
muse, Harvest Home, as an excellent subject 
for her grateful song, in which the peculiar as- 
pect and manners of our country might furnish 
an excellent portrait and landscape of Scotland, 
for the employment of happy moments of lei- 
sure and recess, from your more important 
occupations. 

Your Halloween, and Saturday Night, will 



remain to distant posterity as interesting pie. 
tures of rural innocence and happiness in you! 
native country, and were happily written in 
the dialect of the people ; but Harvest Home 
being suited to descriptive poetry, except 
where colloquial, may escape disguise of a 
dialect which admits of no elegance or dignity 
of expression. Without the assistance of any 
god or goddess, and without the invocation of 
any foreign muse, you may convey in episto- 
lary form the description of a scene so gladden- 
ing and picturesque, with all. the concomitant 
local position, landscape and costume ; con- 
trasting the peace, improvement, and happi- 
ness of the borders of the once hostile nations 
of Britain, with their former oppression and 
misery, and showing, in lively and beautiful 
colours, the beauties and joys of a rural life. 
And as the unvitiated heart is naturally dis- 
posed to overflow in gratitude in the moment 
of prosperity, such a subject would furnish you 
with an amiable opportunity of perpetuating 
the names of Glencairn, Miller, and your 
other eminent benefactors ; which from what 1 
know of your spirit, and have seen of your 
poems and letters, will not deviate from the 
chastity of praise, that is so uniformly united 
to true taste and genius. 

I am, Sir, &c. 



TO LADY E. CUNNINGHAM. 

MY LADY, 

I would, as usual, have availed myself of the 
privilege your goodness has allowed me, of 
sending you any thing I compose in my poeti- 
cal way ; but as I had resolved, so soon as the 
shock of my irreparable loss would allow me, 
to pay a tribute to my late benefactor, I deter- 
mined to make that the first piece I should do 
myself the honour of sending you. Had the 
wing of my fancy been equal to the ardour of 
my heart, the inclosed had been much more 
worthy your perusal ; as it is, I beg leave to 
lay it at your ladyship's feet. As all the world 
knows my obligations to the late Earl of Glen- 
cairn, I would wish to show as openly that my 
heart glows, and shall ever glow, with the 
most grateful sense and remembrance of his 
lordship's goodness. The sables I did myself 
the honour to wear to his lordship's memory, 
were not the " mockery of woe." Nor shall 
my gratitude perish with me : — If, among my 
children, I shall have a son that has a heart, 
he shall hand it down to his child as a family 
honour, and a family debt, that my dearest 
existence I owe to the noble house of Glen- 
cairn ! 

I was about to say, my lady, that if you.. 
think the poem may venture to see the lights 



I would, in some way or other, give it to the 
world. • 



No. CXXII1. 
TO MR AINSLIE. 

MY DEAR AINSLIE, 

Can you minister to a mind diseased? Can 
you, amid the horrors of penitence, regret, re- 
morse, head-ache, nausea, and all the rest of 
the d — d hounds of hell, that beset a poor 
wretch, who has been guilty of the sin of 
drunkenness — can you speak peace to a troubled 
soul ? 

Miserable perdu that I am, I have tried every 
thing that used to amuse me, but in vain: here 
must I sit a monument of the vengeance laid 
up in store for the wicked, slowly counting- 
every chick of the clock as it slowly — slowly 
numbers over th^se lazy scoundrels of hours, 
who, d — n them, are ranked up before me, 
every one at his neighbour's backside, and every 
one with a burthen of anguish on his back, to 
pour on my devoted head — and there is none 
to pity me. My wife scolds me ! my business 
torments me, and my sins come staring me in 
the face, every one telling a more bitter tale 
than his fellow. — When I tell you even . . 
. . has lost its power to please, you will 
guess something of my hell within, and all 
around me — I began Elibanks and Elibraes, 
but the stanza fell unenjoyed, and unfinished 
from my listless tongue; at last I luckily 
thought of reading over an old letter of yours, 
that lay by me in my book-case, and I felt 
something for the first' time since I opened my 

eyes, of pleasurable existence. Well — I 

begin to breathe a little, since I began to write 
you. How are you, and what are you doing ? 
How goes law ? Apropos, for connection's 
sake do not address to me supervisor, for that 
is an honour I cannot pretend to — I am on the 
list, as we call it, for a supervisor, and will be 
called out bye and bye to act one ; but at pre- 
sent, I am a simple gauger, tho' t'other day I 
got an appointment to an excise division of 
£25 per ann. better than the rest- My pre- 
sent income, down money, is £70 per ann. 



I have one or two good fellqws here whom 
you would be glad to know. 



• The poem inclosed, is The Lament for Jamei, Earl 
if GlsKcairn. 



No. CXXIV. 
FROM SIR JOHN WHITEFOORD. 

sir, Near Maybole, \Gth October, 1791. 

Accept of my thanks for your favour with the 
Lament on the death of my much esteemed 
friend, and your woithy patron, the perusal of 
which pleased and affected me much. The 
lines addressed to me are very flattering. 

I have always thought it most natural to 
suppose, (and a strong argument in favour of 
a future existence) that when we see an hon- 
ourable and virtuous man labouring under 
bodily infirmities, and oppressed by the frowns 
of fortune in this world, that there was a hap- 
pier state beyond the grave ; where that worth 
and honour which were neglected here, would 
meet with their just reward, and where tem- 
poral misfortunes would receive an eternal 
recompense. Let us cherish this hope for our 
departed friend ; and moderate our grief for 
that loss we have sustained ; knowing that he 
cannot return to us, but we may go to hhn. 

Remember me to your wife, and with every 
good wish for the prosperity of you and your 
family, believe me at all times, 

Your most sincere friend, 

JOHN WHITEFOORD. 



No. CXXV. 
FROM A. F. TYTLER, ESQ. 

Edinburgh, 21th Nov. 1791. 
You have much reason to blame me for ne- 
glecting till now to acknowledge the receipt of 
a most agreeable packet, containing The Whis- 
tle, a ballad ; and The Lament; which reached 
me about six weeks ago in London, from 
whence I am just returned. Your letter was 
forwarded to me there from Edinburgh, where, 
as I observed by the date, it had lain for some 
days. This was an additional reason for me 
to have answered it immediately on receiving 
it ; but the truth was, the bustle of business, 
engagements and confusion of one kind or 
another, in which I found myself immersed all 
the time I was in London, absolutely put it 
out of my power. But to have done with 
apologies, let me now endeavour to prove my- 
self in some degree deserving of the very flat- 
tering compliment you pay me, by giving you 
at least a frank and candid, if it should not be 
a judicious criticism on the poems you sent me. 
The ballad of The Whistle is, in my opinion, 
truly excellent- The old tradition which you 
have taken up is the best adapted for a Baccha- 
nalian composition of any I have ever met 
with, and you have done it full justice. In 
the first place, the strokes of wit arise naturally 
from the subject, and are uncommonly happy. 
For examDle, — 



BURNS' WORKS. 



" Cynthia hinted she'd find them next morn.'' 

" Though Fate said a hero should perish in light, 
So up rose bright Phoebus and down fell the 
knight." 

In the next place, you are singularly happy in 
the discrimination of your heroes, and in giving 
each the sentiments and language suitable to 
his character. And, lastly, you have much 
merit in the delicacy of the panegyric which 
you have contrived to throw on each of the 
dramatis ■persona, perfectly appropriate to his 
character. The compliment to Sir Robert, 
the blunt soldier, is peculiarly fine. In short, 
this composition, in my opinion, does you great 
honour, and I see not a line or a word in it 
which I could wish to be altered. 

As to The Lament, I suspect, from some 
expressions in your letter to me, that you are 
more doubtful with respect to the merits of 
this piece than of the other, and I own I think 
you have reason ; for although it contains 
some beautiful stanzas, as the first. " The wind 
blew hollow," &c. the fifth, "Ye scatter'd 
birds ;" the thirteenth, " Awake thy last sad 
voice," &c. Yet it appears to me faulty as a 
whole, and inferior to several of those you 
have already published in the same strain. My 
principal objection lies against the plan of the 
piece. I think it was unnecessary and impro- 
per to put the lamentation in the mouth of a 
fictitious character, an aged bard — It had been 
much better to have lamented your patron in 
your own person, to have expressed your 
genuine feelings for his loss, and to have 
spoken the language of nature rather than that 
of fiction on the subject. Compare this with 
your poem of the same title in your printed 
volume, which begins, O thou pale Orb / and 
observe what it is that forms the charm of that 
composition. It is, that it speaks the language 
of truth and of nature. The change is, in my 
opinion, injudicious too in this respect, that an 
aged bard has much less need of a patron and 
protector than a young one. I have thus given 
you, with much freedom, my opinion of both 
the pieces. I should have made a very ill re- 
turn to the compliment you paid me, if I had 
given you any other than my genuine senti- 
ments. 

It will give me great pleasure to hear from 
you when you find leisure, and I beg you will 
believe rne ever, dear Sir, yours, &r„ 



No. CXXVI. 

TO MISS DA VIES. 

It is impossible, madam, that the generous 
warmth and angelic purity of your youthful 
mind, can have any idea of that moral disease 



under which I unhappily must rank as tlFe 
chief of sinners ; I mean a torpitnde of the 
moral powers that may be called, a lethargy of 
conscience. — In vain remorse rears her horrent 
crest, and rouses all her snakes ; beneath the 
deadly fixed eye and leaden hand of indolence, 
their wildest ire is charmed into the torpor of 
the bat, slumbering out the rigours of winter 
in the chink of a ruined wall. Nothing less,. 
madam, could have made me so long ueglec- 
your obliging commands. Indeed I had one 
apology — the bagatelle was not worth, present- 
ing. Besides, so strongly am I interested in 

Miss D 's fate and welfare in the serious 

business of life, amid its chances and changes; 
that to make her the subject of a silly ballad, 
is downright mockery of these ardent feelings; 
'tis like an impertinent jest to a dying friend. 

Gracious Heaven ! why this disparity be- 
tween our wishes and our powers? Why is 
the most generous wish to make others blest, 
impotent and ineffectual — as the idle breeze 
that crosses the pathless desert ? In my walks 
of life I have met with a few people to whom 
how gladly would I have said — " Go, be happy! 
I know that your hearts have been wounded 
by the scorn of the proud, whom accident has 
placed above you— or worse still, in whose 
hand are, perhaps, placed many of the comforts 
of your life. But there ! ascend that rock, 
Independence, and look justly down on their 
littleness of soul. Make the worthless trem- 
ble under your indignation, and the foolish sink 
before your contempt ; and largely impart that 
happiness to others, which, I am certain, will 
give yourselves so much pleasure to bestow !" 

Why, dear madam, must I wake from this 
delightful reverie, and find it all a dream ? 
Why, amid my generous enthusiasm, must I 
find myself poor and powerless, incapable of 
wiping one tear from the eye of pity, or of 
adding one comfort to the friend Hove ! — Out 
upon the world ! say I, that its affairs are ad- 
ministered so ill? They talk of reform; — 
good Heaven ! what a reform would I make 
among the sons, and even the daughters of 
men ! — Down, immediately, should go fools 
from the high places where misbegotten chance 
has perked them up, and through life should 
they skulk, ever haunted by their native insig- 
nificance, as the body marches accompanied by 

its shadow As for a much more formidable 

class, the knaves, I am at a loss what to do 
with them ; Had I a world, there should not 
be a knave in it. 



But the hana tnat could give, I would liberally 
fill ; and I would pour delight on the heart 
that could kindly forgive, and generously love. 
Still the inequalities of his life are, among 
men, comparatively tolerable — but there is a 
delicacy, a tenderness, accompanying every 
view in which we can place lovely Woman, 
that are grated at"* shocked at the rude, capri» 



cious distinctions of fortune. Women is the 
blood-royal of life : let there be slight degrees 
of precedency among them — but let them be 
all sacred. Whether this last sentiment be 
right or wrong, I am not accountable ; it is an 
original component feature of my mind. 



No. CXXV1L 

TO MRS DUNLOP. 

F.Uislanrt, \lth December, 1791. 
Many thanks to you, madam, for your good 
news respecting the little floweret and the mo- 
ther plant. I hope my poetic prayers have 
been heard, and will t>e answered up to the 
warmest sincerity of their fullest extent; and 
then Mr= Henri wDl find her little darling the 
representative of his late parent, in every thing 
but his abridged existence. 

T have just finished the following song, 
which, to a lady the descendant of Wallace, 
and many heroes of his truly illustrious line, 
and herself the mother of several soldiers, needs 
neither preface nor apology. 



Scene, — A field of battle — time of the day, even- 
ing — the wounded and dying of the victorious 
army are supposed to fan in the following 

SONG OF DEATH. 

Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earLh, and 
ye skies. 
Now gay with the broad setting sun; 
Farewell, loves and friendships ; ye dear, tender 
ties, 
Our rare of existence is run 1 

Thou grim king of terrors, thou life's gloomy foe, 
Go, frighten the coward and slave; 

Go, teach them to tremble, full tyrant! but know, 
No terrors hast thou to the brave! 

Thou strik'st the poor peasant — he sinks in the 
dark. 

Nor saves e'en the wreck of a name : 
Thou strik'st the young hero — a glorious mark 

He falls in the blaze of his fame ! 

In the field of proud honour — our swords in 01 
hands, 

Our king and our country to save — 
While victory shines on life's last ebbing sands- 

O, who would not die with the brave 1 



The circumstance that gave rise to th< 
foregoing verses was, looking over, with a 
musical friend, M'Donald's collection of High- 
land aiis ; I was struck with one, an Isle of 



'~RS. 71 

Skye tune, entitled Oran an Aoig, or. Tin 
Song of Death, to the measure of which I 
have adapted my stanzas. I have of late com- 
posed two or three other little pieces, which 
ere yon full orbed moon, whose broad impu- 
dent face now stares at old mother earth all 
night, shall have shrunk into a modest crescent, 
just peeping forth at dewy dawn, I shall find 
an hour to transcribe for you. ADieuje vout 
commende I 



No. CXXVIII. 

TO MRS DUNLOP. 

5th January, 1792. 
You see my hurried life, madam : I can only 
command starts of time ; however, I am glad 
of one thing; since I finished the other sheet, 
the political blast that threatened my welfare 
is overblown. I have corresponded with Com- 
missioner Graham, for the Board had made 
me the subject of their animadversions ; and 
now I have the pleasure of informing you, that 
all is set to rights in that quarter. Now, as to 
these informers, may the devil be let loose to 

but hold ! I was praying most fervently 

in my last sheet, and I must not so soon fall 
a swearing in this. 

Alas ! how little do the wantonly or idly 
officious think what mischief they do by their 
malicious insinuations, indirect impertinence. 
or thoughtless blabbings. What a difference 
there is in intrinsic worth, candour, benevo- 
lence, generosity, kindness — in all the charities 
and all the virtues, between one class of human 
beings and another. For instance, the amiable 
circle I so lately mixed with in the hospitable 

hall of D , their generous hearts — thei: 

uncontaminated dignified minds — their inform- 
ed and polished understandings — what a Con- 
trast, when compared — if such comparing weie 
not downright sacrilege — with the soul of the 
miscreant who can deliberately plot the de- 
struction of an honest man that never offended 
him, and with a grin of satisfaction see the 
unfortunate being, his faithful wife, and prat- 
tling innocents, turned over to beggary and 



Your cup, my dear madam, arrived safe. I 
had two worthy fellows dining with me the 
other day, when I, with great formality, pro- 
duced my whigmeleerie cup, and told them 
that it had been a family-piece amung the de- 
scendants of Sir William Wallace. This 
roused such an enthusiasm, that they insisted 
on bumpering the punch round in it ; and by 
and bye, never did youi great ancestor lay a 
Southron more completely to rest than for a 
time did your cup my two friends. Apropos, 
this is the season of wishing. May God bless 
you, my dear friend, and bless me the humblest 
and sincerest of your friends, by granting yen 
yet many returns of the season ! May all good 



BURNS' WORKS. 



things attend you and yours wherever they are 
scattered over the earth ! 



TO MR WILLIAM SMELLIE, 
PRINTER. 

Dumfries, 22d January, 1792. 
I sit down, my dear sir, to introduce a young 
lady to you, and a lady in tlie first ranks of 
fashion too. What a task ! to you — who care 
no more for the herd of animals called young 
ladies, than you do for the herd of animals 
called young gentlemen. To you — who despise 
and detest the groupings and combinations of 
fashion, as an idiot painter that seems indus- 
trious to place staring fools and unprincipled 
knaves in the foreground of his picture, while 
men of sense and honesty are too often thrown 
in the dimmest shades. Mrs Riddel, who 
will take this letter to town with her and send 
it to you, is a character that, even in your own 
way, as a naturalist and a philosopher, would 
be an acquisition to your acquaintance. The 
lady too is a votary of the muses; and as I 
think myself somewhat of a judge in my own 
trade, I assure you that her verses, always 
correct, and often elegant, are much beyond 
the common run of the lady-poetesses of the 
day. She is a great admirer of your book, and 
hearing me say that I was acquainted with you, 
she begged to be known to you, as she is just 
going to pay her first visit to our Caledonian 
capital. I told her that her best way was to 
desire her near relation, and your intimate 
friend, Craigdarroch, to have you at his house 
while she was there ; and lest you might think 
of a lively West Indian girl of eighteen, as 
girls of eighteen too often deserve to be thought 
of, I should take care to remove that prejudice. 
To be impartial, however, in appreciating the 
lady's merits, she has one unlucky failing, a 
failing which you will easily discover, as she 
seems rather pleased with indulging in it; and 
a failing that you will as easily pardon, as it is 
a sin which very much besets yourself; — where 
she dislikes or despises, she is apt to make no 
more a secret of it, than where she esteems 
and respects. 

I will not present you with the unmeaning 
compliments of the season, but I will send you 
my warmest wishes and most ardent prayers, 
that fortune may never throw your subsist- 
ence to the mercy of a knave, or set your 
character on the judgment of a fool, but 
that, upright and erect, you may walk to an 
honest grave, where men of letters shall say, 
here lies a man who did honour to science ; 
and men of worth shall say, here lies a man 
who did honour to human nature ' 



No. CXXX. 

TO MR W. NICOL. 

2Qlh February, 1792. 
O thou, wisest among the wise, meridian 
blaze of prudence, full moon of discretion, and 
chief of many counsellors ! How infinitely is 
thy puddle-headed, rattle-headed, wrong-head- 
ed, round-headed slave indebted to thy super- 
eminent goodness, that from the luminous path 
of thy own right-lined rectitude, thou lookest 
benignly down on an erring wretch, of whom 
the zig-zag wanderings defy all the powers of 
calculation, from the simple copulation of units, 
up to the hidden mysteries of fluxions ! May 
one feeble ray of that light of wisdom which 
darts from thy sensorium, straight as the arrow 
of heaven, and bright as the meteor of inspira- 
tion, may it be my portion, so that I may be 
less unworthy of the face and favour of that 
father of proverbs and master of maxims, that 
antipode of folly, and magnet among the sages, 
the wise and witty Willie Nicol ! Amen ! 
Amen ! Yea, so be it ! 

For me ! I am a beast, a reptile, and know 
nothing J From the cave of my ignorance, 
amid the fogs of my dulness, and pestilential 
fumes of my political heresies, I look up to 
thee, as doth a toad through the iron-barred 
lucerne of a pestiferous dungeon, to the cloud- 
less glory of a summer sun ! Sorely sighing 
in bitterness of soul, I say, when shall my 
name be the quotation of the wise, and my 
countenance be the delight of the godly, like 
the illustrious lord of Laggan's many hills?* 
As for him, his works are perfect ; never did 
the pen of calumny blur the fair page of his 
reputation, nor the bolt of hatred fly at his 
dwelling. 



Thou mirror of purity, when shall the elfine 
lamp of my glimmerous understanding, purged 
from sensual appetites and gross desires, shine 
like the constellation of thy intellectual powers. 
— As for thee, thy thoughts are pure, and thy 
lips are holy. Never did the unhallowed 
breath of the powers of darkness, and the 
pleasures of darkness, pollute the sacred flame 
of thy sky-descended and heaven-bound de- 
sires ; never did the vapours of impurity stain 
the unclouded sereire of thy cerulean imagina- 
tion, O that like thine were the tenor of my 
life, like thine the tenor of my conversation ! 
then should no friend fear for my strength, no 
enemy rejoice in my weakness ! Then should 
I lie down and rise up, and none to make mt 
afraid. — May thy pity and thy prayer be ex- 
ercised for, O thou lamp of wisdom and mirror 
of morality ! thy devoted slave. f 



, Nicol's containing good advice 



No. CXXXI. 

TO MR CUNNINGHAM. 

3d March, 1792. 
"Since I wrote to you the last lugubrious sheet, 
I have not had time to write you farther. 
When I say that I had not time, that, as usual, 
means, that the three demons, indolence, busi- 
ness, and ennui, have so completely shared my 
hours among them, as not to leave me a five 
minutes fragment to take up a pen in. 

Thank heaven, I feel my spirits buoying 
upwards with the renovating year. Now I 
shall in good earnest take up Thomson's songs. 
I dare say he thinks I have used him unkindly, 
and I must own with too much appearance of 
truth. Apropos, do you know the much ad- 
mired old Highland air called The Sulor's 
JDochter ? It is a first-rate favourite of mine, 
and I have written what I reckon one of my 
best songs to it. I will send it to you as it 
was sung with great applause in some fashion- 
able circles by Major Robertson, of Lude, 
who was here with his corps. 



There is one commission that I must trou- 
-ble you with. I lately lost a valuable seal, a 
present from a departed friend, which vexes 
me much. I have gotten one of your High- 
land pebbles, which I fancy would make a 
very decent one ; and I want to cut my armo- 
rial bearing on it; will you be so obliging as 
inquire what will be the expense of such a 
business? I do not know that my name is 
matriculated, as the heralds call it, at all ; but 
I have invented arms for myself, so you know 
I shall be chief of the name ; and by courtesy 
of Scotland, will likewise be entitled to sup- 
porters. These, however, I do not intend 
having on my seal. lama bit of a herald ; 
and shall give you, secundum artem, my arms. 
On a field, azure, a holly bush, seeded, proper, 
in base; a shepherd's pipe and crook, saltier- 
wise, also proper, in chief. On a wreath of 
the colours, a wood-lark perching on a sprig of 
bay-tree, proper : for crest, two mottoes, round 
the top of the crest, Wood-notes wild. At 
the bottom of the shield, in die usual place, 
Better a wee bush than nae bield. By the 
shepherd's pipe and crook I do not mean the 
nonsense of painters of Arcadia; but a Stock 
and Horn, and a Club, such as you see at the 
head of Allan Ramsay, in Allan's quarto edi- 
tion of the Gentle Shepherd. By the bye, do 
you know Allan? He mu.-t be a man of very 
great genius. — Why is he not more known ? 
— Has he no patrons? or do " Poverty's cold 
wind and crushing rain beat keen and heavy" 
on him ? I once, and but once, got a glance 
of that noble edition of the noblest pastoral in 
the world, and dear as it was, I mean dear as 
■to my pocket, I would have bought it; but 1 



ERS. 73 

was told that it was printed and engraved fijr 
subscribers only. He is the only artist who 
has hit genuine pastoral costume. What, my 
dear Cunningham, is there in riches, that they 
narrow and harden the heart so ? I think that 
were I as rich as the sun, I should be as 
generous as the day ; but as I have no reason 
to imagine my soul a nobler one than any 
other man's, I must conclude that wealth im- 
parts a bird-lime quality to the possessor, at 
which the man, in his native poverty, would 
have revolted. What has led me to this, is 
the idea of such merit as Mr Allan possesses, 
and such riches as a nabob or governor-con- 
tractor possesses, and why they do not form a 
mutual league. Let wealth shelter and cherish 
unprotected merit, and the gratitude and cele- 
brity of that merit will richly repay it. 



No. CXXX 

TO MRS DUNLOP. 

Annan Water Foot, 22d August, 1792. 
Do not blame me for it, madam — my own con- 
science, hackneyed and weather-beaten as it is, 
in watching and reproving my vagaries, follies, 
indolence, &c. has continued to blame and pu- 
nish me sufficiently. 



Do you think it possible, my dear and hon- 
oured friend, that I could be so lost to grsti- 
tude for many favours ; to esteem for much 
worth, and to the honest, kind, pleasurable tie 
of, now, old acquaintance, and I hope and am 
sure of progressive increasing friendship — as, 
for a single day, not to think of you — to ask 
the Fates what they are doing and about to do 
with my much loved friend and her wide-scat- 
tered connexions, and to beg of them to be as 
kind to you and yours as they possibly can. 

Apropos (though how it is apropos, I have 
not leisure to explain), do you know that I am 
almost in love with an acquaintance of yours? 
— Almost! said I — I am in love, souse ! over 
head and ears, deep as the most unfathomable 
abyss of the boundless ocean ; but the word, 
Dove, owing to the inteimingledoms of the 
good and the bad, the pure and the impure, in 
this world, being rather an equivocal term for 
expressing one's sentiments and sensations, I 
must do justice to the sacred purity of my at- 
tachment. Know then, that the heart-struck 
awe ; the distant humble approach ; the delight 
we should have in gazing upon and listening 
to a Messenger of Heaven, appearing in all 
the unspotted purity of his celestial home, 
among the coarse, polluted, far inferior sons of 
men, to deliver to thein tidings that make their 
hearts swim in joy, and their imaginations soar 



74 



BURNS' WORKS. 



in transport — such, so delighting, and so pure, 
were the emotions of my soul on meeting the 
other day with Miss L— B— , your neighbour 
at M — — . Mr B. with his two daughters, 
accompanied by Mr H. of G. passing through 
Dumfries a few days ago, on their way to 
England, did me the honour of calling on me ; 
on which I took my horse (chough God knows 
I could ill spare the time), and accompanied 
them fourteen or fifteen miles, and dined and 
spent the day with them. 'Twas about nine, 
I think, when I left them ; and riding home, I 
composed the following ballad, of which you 
will probably think you have a dear bargain, 
as it will cost you another groat of postage. 
You must know that there is an old ballad be- 
ginning with 

" My bonnie Lizzie Baillie 

I'll row thee in my plaidie," &c. 

So I parodied it as follows, which is literally 
the first copy, " unanointed unaunealed," as 
Hamlet says. — See the poem. 

So much for ballads. I regret that you are 
gone to the east country, as I am to be in 
Ayrshire in about a fo-t.night. This world of 
ours, notwithstanding it has many good things 
in it, yet it has ever had this curse, that two 
or three people who would be the happier the 
oftener they met together, are, almost without 
exception, always so placed as never to meet 
but once or twice a-year, which, considering 
the few years of a man's life, is a very great 
'•' evil under the sun," which I do not recollect 
that Solomon has mentioned in his catalogue 
of the miseries of man. I hope and believe 
that there is a state of existence beyond the 
grave, where the worthy of this life will renew 
their former intimacies, with this endearing 
addition, that " we meet to part no more." 



" Tell us, ye dead, 
Will none of you in pity disclose the secret 
What 'tis you are, and we must shortly be !" 

A thousand times have I made this apostrophe 
to the departed sons of men, but not one of 
them has ever thought fit to answer the ques- 
tion. " O that some courteous ghost would 
blab it out !" — but it cannot be ; you and I, my 
friend, must make the experiment by ourselves 
and for ourselves. However, I am so con- 
vinced that an unshaken faith in the doctrines 
of religion is not only necessary, by making us 
better men, but also by making us happier 
men, that I shall take every care that your 
little god-son, and every little creature that 
6hall call me father, shall be taught them. 

So ends this heterogeneous letter, written 
at this wild place of the world, in the intervals 
of my labour of discharging a vessel of rum 
from Antigua. 



No. CXXXIII. 

TO MR CUNNINGHAM. 

Dumfries, 10th September, 1792. 
No ! I will not attempt an apology. — Amid 
all my hurry of business, grinding the face of 
the publican and the sinner on the merciless 
wheels of the excise ; making ballads, and then 
drinking, and singing them; and, over and 
above all, the correcting the press-work of two 
different publications ; still, still I might have 
stolen five minutes to dedicate to one of the 
first of my friends and fellow- creatures. I 
might have done, as I do at present, snatched 
an hour near " witching time of night" — and 
scrawled a page or two. I might have con- 
gratulated my friend on his marriage ; or I 
might have thanked the Caledonian archers 
for the honour they have done me (though to 
do myself justice, I intended to have done both 
in rhyme, else I had done both long ere now.) 
Well, then, here is to your good health \ for 
you must know, I have set a nipperkin of 
toddy by me, just by way of spdl, to keep 
away the meikle horned Deil, or any of his 
subaltern imps who may be on their nightly 
rounds. 

But what shall I write to you ? — " The 
voice said cry," and I said, " what shall I cry ?" 
— O, thou spirit ! whatever thou art, or wher- 
ever thou makest thyself visible ! be thou a 
bogle by the eerie side of an auld thorn, in the 
dreary glen through which the herd callan 
maun bicker in his gloarnin route frae the 
faulde ! Be thou a brownie, set, at dead of 
night, to thy task by the blazing ingle, or in 
the solitary barn where the repercussions of 
thy iron flail half affright thyself, as thou per- 
formest the work of twenty of the sons of men, 
ere the cock-crowing summon thee to thy ample 
cog of substantial brose — Be thou a kelpie, 
haunting the ford or ferry, in the starless night, 
mixing thy laughing yell with the howling of 
the storm, and the roaring of the flood, as thou 
viewest the perils and miseries of man on the 
foundering horse, or in the tumbling boat! — 
Or, lastly, be thou a ghost, paying thy noctur 
nal visits to the hoary ruins of decayed gran- 
deur ; or performing thy mystic rites in the 
shadow of thy ^time- worn church, while the 
moon .looks, without a cloud, on the silent, 
ghastly dwellings of the dead around thee ; or 
taking thy stand by the bedside of the villain, 
or the murderer, pourtraying on his dreaming 
fancy, pictures, dreadful as the horrors of un- 
veiled hell, and terrible as the wrath of incensed 
Deity ! — Come, thou spirit, but not in these 
horrid forms ; come with the milder, gentle, 
easy inspirations, which thou breathest round 
the wig of a prating advocate, or the tete of a 
tea-sipping gossip, while their tongues run at 
the light-horse gallop of dishmaclaver forever 
and ever — come and assist a poor devil who is 
quite jaded in the attempt to share half an idea 



*mong ball a hundred words ; to fill up four 
quarto pages, while he has not got one single 
sentence of recollection, information, or remark 
worth putting pen to paper for. 

I feel, I feel the presence of supernatural 
assistance ! circled in the embrace of my elbow- 
chair, ray breast labours, like the bloated Sybil 
on her three-footed stool, and like her too, 
labours with Nonsense. — Nonsense, auspicious 
name ! Tutor, friend, aid finger-post in the 
mystic mazes of law ; the cadaverous paths of 
physic ; and particularly in the sightless soar- 
ings of school divinity, who, leaving Com- 
mon Sense confounded at his strength of 
pinion, Reason delirious with eyeing his giddy 
flight, and Truth creeping back into the bot- 
tom of her well, cursing the hour that ever she 
offered her scorn id alliance to the wizard power 
of Theologic Vision — raves abroad on all the 
winds. " On earth Discord ! a gloomy Hea- 
ven above, opening her jealous gates to the 
nineteen thousandth part of the tithe of man- 
kind ! and below, an inescapable and inexora- 
ble hell, expanding its leviathan jaws for the 
vast residue of mortals!!!" — O doctrine! 
comfortable and healing to the weary, wounded 
soul of a man ! Ye sons and daughters of 
affliction, ye pauvres miserables, to whom day 
brings no pleasure, and night yields no rest, be 
comforted ! "'Tis but one to nineteen hun- 
dred thousand that your situation will mend in 
this world ;" so, alas ! the experience of the 
poor and the needy too often affirms ; and 'tis 
nineteen hundred thousand to one, by the dog- 
mas of , that you will be damned eter- 
nally in the world to come ! 

But of all Nonsense, Religious Nonsense is 
the most nonsensical ; so enough, and more 
than enough of it. Only, by the bye, will you, 
or can you tell me, my dear Cunningham, why 
a sectarian turn of mind has always a tendency 
to narrow and illiberalize the heart? They 
are orderly; they may be, just; nay, I have 
known them merciful : but still your children 
of sanctity move among their fellow-creatures 
with a nostril snuffing putrescence, and a toot 
spurning filth, in short, wi&h a conceited dig- 
nity that your titled ... . . . 

or any other of your Scottish 

lordlings of seven centuries standing, display 
when they accidentally mix among the many- 
aproned sons of mechanical life. I remember, 
in my plough-boy days, I could not conceive it 
possible that a noble lord could be a fool, or a 
godly man could be a knave. — How ignorant 
are plough-boys ! — Nay, I have since discoverd 

that a godly woman may be a !— But hold 

i— Here's t'ye again — this rum is generous 
Antigua, so a very unfit menstruum for scandal. 

Apropos, how do you like, I mean really 
like the married life ! Ah, my friend ! matri- 
mony is quite a different thing from what your 
love-sick youths and sighii:g girls take it to be ! 
But marriage, we are told, is appointed by 
God, and I shall never quarrel with any of his 
institutions. J am a husband of older standing 



EKS. 15 

than you, and shall give you my ideas of the 
conjugal state — (en passant, you know I am no 
Latinist, is not conjugal derived from jugun ., a 
yoke?) Well, then, the scale of good-wifesiilp 
1 divide into ten parts. — Good-nature, four ; 
Good Sense, two; Wit, one; Personal Charms, 
viz. a sweet face, eloquent eyes, fine limbs, 
graceful carriage, (I would add a fine waist 
too. but that is so soon spoilt, you know) all 
these, one; as for the other qualities belonging 
to, or attending on, a wife, such as Fortune, 
Connexions, Education, (I mean education ex- 
traordinary) Family Blood, &c. divide the two 
remaining degrees among them as you please ; 
only, remember that all these minor properties 
must be expressed by fractions, for there is not 
any one of them, in the aforesaid scale, entitled 
to the dignity of an integer. 

As for the rest of my fancies and reveries — 

how I lately met with Miss L B , 

the most beautiful, elegant woman in the world 
— how I accompanied her and her father's 
family fifteen miies on their journey, out of 
pure devotion, to admire the loveliness of the 
works of God, in such an unequalled display 
of them — how, in galloping home at night, I 
made a ballad on her, of which these two stan- 
zas make a part — 

Thou, bonnie L , art a queen, 

Thy subjects we before thee ; 



The very Deil he could na scaith 
Whatever wad belang thee ! 

He'd look into thy bonnie face 
And say, " 1 canna wrang thee." 

— behold all these things are written in the 
chronicles of my imagination, and shall be read 
by thee, my dear friend, and by thy beloved 
spouse, my other dear friend, at a more con- 
venient season. 

Now, to thee, and to thy before-designed 
6osom-companion, be given the precious things 
brought forth by the sun, and the precious 
things brought forth by the moon, and the 
benignest influence of the stars, and the living 
streams which flow from the fountains of life, 
and by the tree of life, for ever and ever ! 
Amen ! 



No. CXXXIV. 

TO MRS DUNLOP. 

Dumfries, 2Uh September, 1792. . 
I HAVE this moment, my dear madam, yours 
of the twenty-third. All your other kind re- 
proaches, your news, &c. are out of my head 
when I read and think on Mrs H 's situ- 
ation. Good God ! a heart-wounded helpless 
young woman — in a strange, foreign land, and 
that land convulsed with every horror, that cai» 



76 



BURNS' WORKS. 



•barrow the human feelings — sick — looking, 
'■longing for a comforter, but finding none — a 
mother's feelings, too — but it is too much : he 
who wounded (he only can) may He heal !* 



I wish the fanner great joy of his new ac- 
quisition to his family 

I cannot say that I give him joy of his life as 
a farmer. 'Tis, as a farmer paying a dear, un- 
conscionable rent, a cursed life I As to a laird 
farming his own property ; sowing his own 
corn in hope ; and reaping it, in spite of brittle 
weather, in gladness ; knowing that none can 
say unto him, " what dost thou ?" — fattening 
his herds ; shearing his flocks ; rejoicing at 
Christmas ; and begetting sons and daughters, 
until he be the venerated, grey-haired leader of 
a little tribe — 'tis a heavenly life ! but Devil 
take the life of reaping the fruits that another 
must eat. 

Well, your kind wishes will be gratified, as 
to seeing me when I make my Ayrshire visit. 

I cannot leave Mrs B , until her nine 

months' race is run, which may perhaps be in 
three or four weeks. She, too, seems deter- 
mined to make me the patriarchal leader of a 
band. However, if Heaven will be so obliging 
as let me have them on the proportion of three 
boys to one girl, I shall be so much the more 
pleased. I hope, if I am spared with them, to 
show a set of boys that will do honour to my 
cares and name ; but I am not equal to the 
task of rearing girls. Besides, I am too poor ; 
a girl should always have a fortune. Apropos, 
your little god-son is thriving charmingly, but 
is a very devil. He, though two years younger, 
has completely mastered his brother. Robert 
is indeed the mildest, gentlest creature I ever 
saw. He has a most surprising memory, and 
is quite the pride of his schoolmaster. 

You know how readily we get into prattle 
upon a subject dear to our heart : you can ex- 
cuse it. God bless you and yours ! 



No. CXXXV. 
TO MRS DUNLOP. 



I had been from home, and did not receive 
your letter until my return the other day. 
What shall I say to comfort you, my much- 
ralued, much-afflicted friend ! I can but grieve 
with you ; consolation I have none to offer, 
except that which religion holds out to the 
children of affliction — children of affliction I — 
how just the expression ! and like every other 



family, they have matters among them which 
they hear, see, and feel in a serious, all-impor- 
tant manner, of which the world has not, nor 
cares to have, any idea. The world looks in- 
differently on, makes the passing remark, and 
proceeds to the next novel occurrence. 

Alas, madam ! who would wish for many 
years ! What is it but to drag existence until 
our joys gradually expire and leave us in a 
night of misery ; like the gloom which blots 
out the stars one by one, from the face of 
night, and leaves us, without a ray of comfort, 
in the howling waste ! 

I am interrupted, and must leave off. You 
shall soon hear from me again. 



No. C XX XVI. 

TO MRS DUNLOP. 

Dumfries, 6th December, 1792. 
I shall be in Ayrshire, I think, next week; 
and if at all possible, I shall certainly, my 
much-esteemed friend, have the pleasure of 
visiting at Dunlop-house. 

Alas, madam ! how seldom do we meet in 
this world, that we have reason to congratulate 
ourselves on accessions of happiness ! I have 
not passed half the ordinary term of an old 
man's life, and yet I scarcely look over the 
obituary of a newspaper, that I do not see 
some names that I have known, and which I, 
and other acquaintances, little thought to meet 
with there so soon. Every other instance of 
the mortality of our kind, makes us cast an 
anxious look into the dreadful abyss of uncer- 
tainty, and shudder with apprehensions for our 
own fate. But of how different an importance 
are the lives of different individuals ? Nay, of 
what importance is one period of the same life, 
more than another ? A few years ago, I could 
have lain down in the dust, " careless of the 
voice of the morning ;" and now not a few, 
and these most helpless individuals, would, on 
losing me and my exertions, lose both their 
" staff and shield." By the way, these helpless 
ones have lately got an addition, Mrs B. hav- 
ing given me a fine girl since I wrote you. 
There is a charming passage in Thomson's 
Edward and Kleanora. 

" The valiant, in himself, what can he suffer— 
Or what need he regard his single woes ?" &e. 

As I am got in the way of quotations, I 
shall give you another from the same piece 
peculiarly, alas ! too peculiarly apposite, my 
dear madam, to your present frame of mind : 

" Who so unworthy but may proudly deck him, 
With his fair-weather virtue, that exults 
Glad o'er the summer main ? the tempest comes, 
The rough winds rage aloud ; when from the 

helm 
This virtue shrinks, and in a corner lies, 



Lamenting — Heavens ! if privileged from trial, 
How cheap a thing were virtue !" 

I do not remember to have heard you men- 
tion Thomson's dramas. I pick up favourite 
quotations, and store them in my mind as ready 
armour, offensive, or defensive, amid the 
struggle of this turbulent existence. Of these 
is one, a very favourite one, from his Alfred, 

'•' Attach thee firmly to the virtuous deeds 
And offices of life ; to life itself, 
With all its vain and transient joys, sit loose."' 

Probably I have quoted some of these to 
you formerly, as indeed when I write from the 
heart, lam apt to be guilty of such repetitions. 
The compass of the heart, in the musical style 
of expression, is much more bounded than that 
of the imagination j so the notes of the former 
are extremely apt to run into one another; but 
in return for the paucity of its compass, its few 
notes are much more sweet I must still give 
you another quotation, which I am almost sure 
I have given you before, but I cannot resist 
the temptation. The subject is religion — 
speaking of its importance to mankind, the 
author says, 

' 'Tis this, my friend, that streaks our morning 
bright," &c. as in p. 49. 

I see you are in for double postage, so I 
shall e'en scribble out t'other sheet. We in 
this country here have many alarms of the 
reforming, or rather the republican spirit of 
your part of the kingdom. Indeed we are a 
good deal in commotion ourselves. For me, 
I am a placeman, you know ; a very humble one 
indeed, Heaven knows, but still so much so 
as to gag me. What my private sentiments 
are, you will find out without an interpreter. 



I have taken up the subject in another view ; 
and the other day, for a pretty actress's benefit- 
night, I wrote an address, which I will give 
you on the other page, called The Rights of 



THE RIGHTS OF WOMAN. 



An Occasional Address spoken by Miss Fonte- 
nelle on her benefit-night. 



While Europe's eye is fix'd on mighty things, 
The fate of empires and the fall of kings, 
While Quacks of state must each produce his 

plan, 
And even children lisp the Rights of Man ; 
Amid this mighty fuss just let me mention, 
The Rights of Woman merit some attention. 



7? 



First, in the sexes' intermix'd c 
One sacred Right of Woman is protection. 
The tender flower that lifts its head, elate, 
Helpless, must fall before the blast of fate, 
Sunk to the earth, defaced its lovely form, 
Unless your shelter ward ih' impending storm.— 

Our second Right's — but needless here is cau- 
tion, 
To keep that right inviolate's the fashion, 
Each man of sense has it so full before him, 
He'd die before he'd wrong it — 'tis decorum. — 
There was, indeed, in far less polish'd days, 
A time, when rough rude men had naughty ways 
Would swagger, swear, get drunk, kick up a riot. 
Nay, even thus invade a lady's quiet. — 
Now, thank our stars ! these Gothic times are 

fled: 
Now, well-bred men — and you are all well-bred — 
Most justly think (and we are much the gainers/ 
Such conduct neither spirit, wit, nor maimers.* 

For Right the third, our last, our best, ouf 
dearest, 
That right to 11 uttering female hearts the nearest. 
Which even the Rights of Kings in low prostra- 
tion 
Most humbly own — 'tis dear, dear admiration 
In that blest sphere alone we live and move ; 
There taste that life of life — immortal love — 
Smiles, glances, sighs, tears, fits, flirtations, airs, 
'Gainst such an host what fliniy savage dares- 
When awful Beauty joins with all her charms 
Who is so rash as rise in rebel arms ? 

But truce with kings, and truce with constitu* 
tions, 
With bloody armaments and revolutions, 
Let majesty your first attention summon, 
Ah ! ca ira / the Majesty of Woman! 

I shall have the honour of receiving your 
criticisms in person at Dunlop. 



No. CXXXVII. 



TO MISS B- 



-, OF YORK. 



madam, 2] st March, 1793. 

Among many things for which I envy those 
hale, long-lived old fellows before the flood, is 
this in particular, that when they met with any 
body after their own heart, they had a charm- 
ing long prospect of many, many happy meet- 
ings with them in after-life. 

Now, in this short, stormy winter day of our 
fleeting existence, when you now and then, in 
the Chapter of Accidents, meet an individual 
whose acquaintance is a real acquisition, there 
are all the probabilities against you, that you 
shall never meet with that valued character 
more. On the other hand, brief as the miser- 
able being is, it is none of the least of the- 
miseries belonging to it, that if there is any 
miscreant whom you hate, or creature whom 



7S 



BURNS' WORKS. 



you despise, the ill run of the chances shall be 
so against you, that in the overtakings, turn- 
ings, and jostlings of life, pop, at some unlucky 
corner, eternally comes the wretch upon you, 
and will not allow your indignation or contempt 
a moment's repose As I am a sturdy believer 
in the powers of darkness, I take those to be 
the doings of that old author of mischief, the 
devil. It is well known that he has some 
kind of short-hand way of taking down our 
thoughts, and I make no doubt that he is per- 
fectly acquainted with my sentiments respect- 
ing Miss B ; how much I admired her 

abilities and valued her worth, and how very 
fortunate I thought myself in her acquaintance. 
For this last reason, my dear madam, I must 
entertain no hopes of the very great pleasure 
of meeting with you again. 

Miss H tells me that she is sending a 

packet to you, and I beg leave to send you the 
inclosed sonnet, though to tell you the real 
truth, the sonnet is a mere pretence, that I may 
have the opportunity of declaring with how 
much respectful esteem I have the honour to 
be, &c. 



No. CXXXVIII. 
TO MISS C 

madam, August, 1793. 

Some rather unlooked-for accidents have pre- 
vented my doing myself the honour of a second 
visit to Arbiegland, as I was so hospitably 
invited, and so positively meant to have done. 
— However, I still hope to have that pleasure 
before the busy months of harvest begin. 

I inclose you two of my late pieces, as some 
kind return for the pleasure I have received in 
perusing a certain MS. volume of poems in 
the possession of Captain Riddel. To repay 
one with an old song, is a proverb, whose force 
you, madam, I know will not allow. What is 
said of illustrious descent is, I believe, equally 
true of a talent for poetry •, none ever despised 
it who had pretensions to it. The fates and 
characters of the rhyming tribe often employ 
rny thoughts when I^am disposed to be melan- 
choly. There is not, among all the martyro- 
logies that ever were penned, so rueful a 
narrative as the lives of the poets. — In the 
comparative view of wretches, the criterion is 
not what they are doomed to suffer, but how 
they are formed to bear. Take a being of our 
kind, give him a stronger imagination and a 
more delicate sensibility, which between them 
will ever engender a more ungovernable set of 
passions than are the usual lot of man ; implant 
in him an irresistible impulse to some idle 
vagary, such as, arranging wild flowers 
fantastical nosegays, tracing the grasshopper to 
his haunt by his chirping song, watching the 
frisks of the little minnows in the sunny pool, 
or hunting aftei the intrigues of butterflies— in 



short, send him adiift after some pursuit which 
shall eternally mislead him from the path of 
lucre, and yet curse him with a keener relish 
than any man living, for the pleasures that lucre 
can purchase; lastly, fill up the measure of his 
woes by bestowing on him a spuming sense of 
his own dignity, and you have created a wight 
nearly as miserable as a poet. To you, madam, 
I need not recount the fairy pleasures the muse 
bestows to counterbalance this catalogue of 
evils. Bewitching poetry is like bewitching 
woman ; she has in all ages been accused of 
misleading mankind from the counsels of wis- 
dom and the paths of prudence, involving them 
in difficulties, baiting them with poverty, 
branding them with infamy, and plunging them 
in the whirling vortex of ruin ; y<Ht where is 
the man but must own that all happiness on 
earth is not worthy the name — that even the 
holy hermit's solitary prospect of paradisaical 
bliss is but the glitter of a northern sun, rising 
over a frozen region, compared with the many 
pleasures, the nameless raptures that we owe 
to the lovely Queen of the heart of Man ! 



No. CXXXIX. 
TO JOHN M'MURDO, ESQ. 

sir, December 1793. 

It is said that we take the greatest liberties 
with our greatest friends, and I pay myself a 
very high compliment in the manner in which 
I am going to apply the remark. I have owed 
you money longer than ever I owed it to any 
man. — Here is Ker's account, and here are six 
guineas ; and now, I don't owe a shilling to 
man — or woman either. But for these damned 
dirty, dog's ear'd little pages,* I had done my- 
self the honour to have waited on you long ago. 
Independent of the obligations your hospitality 
has laid me under, the consciousness of your 
superiority in the rank of man and gentleman, 
of itself was fully as much as I could ever 
make head against ; but to owe you money 
too, was more than I could face. 

I think I once mentioned something of a 
collection of Scotch songs I have for some 
years been making : I send you a perusal of 
what I have got together. I could not con- 
veniently spare them above five or six days, 
and five or six glances of them will probably 
more than suffice you. A very few of them 
are my own. When you are tired of them, 
please leave them with Mr Clint, of the King's 
Arms. There is not another copy of the col- 
lection in the world ; and I shall be sorry that 
any unfortunate negligence should deprive me 
of what has cost me a good deal of pains. 

* Scottish bank-notes. 



♦HO Vi AS TO BESPEAK A PLAY ONE EVENING AT 
THE DUMFRIES THEATRE. 

I AM thinking to send my Address to some 
periodical publication, but it has not got your 
sanction, so pray look over it. 

As to tlie Tuesday's play, let me beg of you, 
my dear madam, let me bee of you to give us, 
The Wonder, a Woman keeps a Secret; to 
which please add, The Spoiled Child — you will 
highly oblige me by so doing. 

Ah, what an enviable creature you are ! 
There now, this cursed gloomy blue-devil day, 
you are going to a party of choice spirits — 

■« To play the shapes 
Of frolic fancy, and incessant form 
Those rapid pictures, that assembled train 
Of fleet ideas, never join'd before, 
Where lively wit excites to gay surprise ; 
Or folly, painting humour, grave himself, 
Calls laughter forth, dvep-shaking every nerve.'' 

But as you rejoice with them that do rejoice, 
do also remember to weep with them that 
weep, and pity your melancholy friend. 



No. CXLI. 
TO A LADY. 

i.N FAVOUR OF A PLAYER'S BENEFIT. 
MAD Ail, 

You were eo very good as to promise me to 
honour my friend with your presence on his 
benefit-night. That night is fixed for Friday 
Jirst: the ptay a most interesting one! The 
way to keep Him. I have the pleasure to know 
Mr G. well. His merit as an actor is gener- 
ally acknowledged. He has genius and worth 
which would do honour to patronage : he is a 
poor and modest man ; claims which, from 
their very silence, have the more forcible power 
on the generous heart. Alas, for pity ! that. 
from the indolence of those who have the good 
things of this life in their gift, too often does 
brazen-fronted importunity snatch that boon, 
the rightful due of retiring, humble, want ! 
Of all the qualities we assign to the author 
and director of Nature, by far the most envia- 
ble is — to be able " To wipe away all tears 
from all eyes." O what insignificant, sordid 
wretches are they, however chance may have 
loaded them with wealth, who go to theii 
graves, to their magnificent mausoleums, with 
hardly the consciousness of having made one 
poor honest heart happy ! 

But I crave your pardon, madam ; I came 
to beg, not to preach. 



1794. 
I am extremely obliged to you for your kind 
mention of my interests, in a letter which Mr 

S showed me. At present, my situation 

in life must be in a great measure stationary, 
at least for two or three years. The statement 
is this — I am on the supervisor's list; and as 
we come on there by precedency, in two or 
three years I shall be at the head of that list, 
and be appointed of course — then a Friend 
might be of service to me in getting me into a 
place of the kingdom which I would like. A 
supervisor's income varies from about a hun- 
dred and twenty, to two hundred a-year ; but 
the business is an incessant drudgery, and 
would be nearly a complete bar to every species 
of literary pursuit. The moment I am ap- 
pointed supervisor in the common routine, I 
may be nominated on the collector's list ; and 
this is always a business purely of political 
patronage. A collectorship varies much, from 
better than two hundred a-year to near a thou- 
sand. They also come forward by precedency 
on the list, and have, besides a handsome in- 
come, a life of complete leisure. A life of 
literary leisure, with a decent competence, is 
the summit of my wishes. It would be the 
prudish affectation of silly pride in me, to say 
that I do not need or would not be indebted to 
a political friend ; at the same time, sir, I by 
no means lay my affairs before you thus, to 
hook my dependent situation on your benevo- 
lence. If, in my progress of life, an opening 
should occur where the good offices of a gen- 
tleman of your public character and political 
consequence might bring me forward, I will 
petition your goodness with the same frankness 
and sincerity as I now do myself the honour 
to subscribe myself, &c. 



No. CXLII1. 
TO MRS . 

DEAR MADAM, 

I meant to have called on you yesternight, but 
as I edged up to your box-door, the first object 
which greeted my view, was one of those lob- 
ster-coated puppies, sitting like another dragon, 
guarding the Hesperian fruit. On the condi- 
tions and capitulations you so obligingly offer, 
I shall certainly make my weather-beaten 
rustic phiz a part of your box-furniture on 
Tuesday, when we may arrange the business 
of the visit. 



bO 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Among the profusion of idle compliments 
-which insidious craft, or unmeaning folly inces- 
santly offers at your shrine — a shrine, how far 
exalted above such adoration — permit me, were 
it but for rarity's sake, to pay you the honest 
tribute of a warm heart, and an independent 
mind ; and to assure you, that I am, thou most 
amiable, and most accomplished of thy sex, 
with the most respectful esteem, and fervent 
regard, thine, &c 



No. CXLIV. 

TO THE SAME. 

I will wait on you, my ever- valued friend, but 
whether in the morning I am not sure. Sun- 
day closes a period of our curst revenue busi- 
ness, and may probably keep me employed 
with my pen until noon. Fine employment 
for a poet's pen ! There is a species of the 
human genus that I call the gin-horse class 
what enviable dogs they are. Round, am 
round, and round they go, — Mundell's ox that 
drives his cotton mill, is their exact prototype 
— without an idea or a wish beyond their cir- 
cle : fat, sleek, stupid, patient, quiet, and con- 
tented ; while here I sit, altogether Novem- 

berish, a d melange of fretfulness and 

melancholy ; not enough of the one to rouse 
me to passion, nor of the other to repose 
in torpor ; my soul flouncing and fluttering 
round her tenement, like a wild finch, caught 
amid the horrors of winter, and newly thrust 
into a cage. Well, I am persuaded that it was 
of me the Hebrew sage prophesied, when he 
foretold — " And behold, on whatsoever this 
man doth set his heart, it shall not prosper !" 
If my resentment is awakened, it is sure to be 
where it dare not squeak ; and if — 



Pray that wisdom and bliss be more frequei 
visitors of 

R. B. 



TO THE SAME. 

I have this moment got the song from S , 

and I am sorry to see that he has spoilt it a 
good deal. It shall be a lesson to me how 1 
lend him any thing again. 

I have sent you Werter, truly happy to have 
any the smallest opportunity of obliging you. 

'Tis true, madam, I saw you once since I 

was at W ; and that once froze the very 

life-blood of my heart. Your reception of me 
was such, that a wretch meeting the eye of his 
judge, about to pronounce sentence of de-dlh 



on him, could only have envied my feelings 
and situation. But I hate the theme, and 
never more shall write or speak on it. 

One thing I shall proudly say, that I can 

pay Mrs a higher tribute of esteem, and 

appreciate her amiable worth more truly, than 
any man whom I have seen approach her. 



TO THE SAME. 

I have often told you, my dear friend, thai 
you had a spice of caprice in your composition, 
and you have as often disavowed it, even per- 
haps while your opinions were, at the moment, 
irrefragably proving it. Could any thing es- 
trange me from a friend such as you ? — No ! 
To-morrow I shall have the honour of waiting 
on you. 

Farewell, thou first of friends, and most 
accomplished of women; even with all thy 
little caprices ! 



No. CXLVIL 

TO THE SAME. 

MAI) AM, 

I retukn your common-place book. I have 
perused it with much pleasure, and would have 
continued my criticisms, but as it seems the 
critic has forfeited your esteem, his strictures 
must lose their value. 

If it is true that " offences come only from 
the heart," before you 1 am guiltless. To 
admire, esteem, and prize you, as the most 
accomplished of women, and the first of friends 
— if these are crimes, I am the most offending 
thing alive. 

In a face where I used to meet the kind 
complacency of friendly continence, now to 
find cold neglect, and contemptuous scorn — is 
a wrench that my heart can ill bear. It is, 
however, some kind of miserable good luck ; 
that while de-haut-en-bas rigour may depress 
an unoffending wretch to the ground, it has a 
tendency to rouse a stubborn something in his 
bosom, which, though it cannot heal the 
wounds of his soul, is at least an opiate to 
blunt their poignancy. 

With the profoundest respect for your abili- 
ties; the most sincere esteem, and ardent 
regard for your gentle heart and amiable man- 
ners ; and the most fervent wish and prayer 
for your welfare, peace, and bliss, I haye the 
honour to be, madam, your most devoted hum- 
ble servant. 



No. CXLVIIL 

TO JOHN SYME, ESQ. 

You know that among other high dignities, 
you have the honour to be my supreme court 
of critical judicature, from which there is no 
appeal. I inclose you a song which I com- 
posed since I saw you, and I am going to give 
you the history of it. Do you know that 
among much that I admire in the characters 
and manners of those great folks whom I have 
now the honour to call my acquaintances, the 

O family, there is nothing charms me 

more than Mr O's unconcealable attachment 
to that incomparable woman. Did you ever, 
my dear Syme, meet with a man who owed 
more to the Divine Giver of all good things 
than Air O. ? A tine fortune ; a pleasing 
exterior; self-evident amiable dispositions, and 
Bn ingenious upright mind, and that informed 
too, much beyond the usual run of young fel- 
lows of bis rank atid fortune ; and to all this, 
such a woman ! — but of her I shall say nothing 
at all, in despair of saying any thing adequate : 
in my song, J have endeavoured to do justice 
to what would be his feelings on seeing, in the 
6cene I have drawn, the habitation of his Lucy. 
As I am a good deal pleased with my perform- 
ance, I in my first fervour thought of sending 

it to Mrs O , but on second thoughts, 

perhaps what I offer as the honest incense of 
genuine respect, might, from the well-known 
character of poverty and poetry, be construed 
into some modification or other of that servility 
which my soul abhors.* 



No. CXLIX. 
TO MISS . 

MADAM, 

Nothing short of a kind of absolute necessity 
could have made me trouble you with this let- 
ter. Except my ardent and just esteem for 
your sense, taste, and worth, every sentiment 
arising in my breast, as I put pen to paper to 
you, is painful. The scenes I have past with 
the friend of my soul, and his amiable con- 
nexions ! The wrench at my heart to think 
that he is gone, for ever gone from me, never 
more to meet in the wanderings of a weary 
world ; and the cutting reflection of all, that I 
had most unfortunately, though most unde- 
servedly, lost the confidence of that soul of 
worth, ere it took its flight ! 

These, madam, are sensations of no ordinary 
anguish. — However, you, also, may be offended 
with some imputed improprieties of mine j sen- 



* The song inclosed was the one beginning with 
" O wat ye wha's in yon town." 



ERS. bl 

sibility you know I possess, and sincerity none 
will deny me. 

To oppose those prejudices which have been 
raised against me, is not the business of this 
letter. Indeed it is a warfare I know not how 
to wnge. The powers of positive vice I car. 
in some degree calculate, and against direct 
malevolence I can be on my mmrd ; but who 
can estimate the fatuity of giddy caprice, or 
ward off the unthinking mischief of precipitate 
folly ' 

I have a favour to request of you, madam, 

and of your sister Mrs , through your 

means. You know, that, at the wish of my 
late friend, I made a collection of all my trifles 
in verse which I had ever written. They are 
many of them local, some ot them puerile, and 
silly, and all of them unfit for the public eye. 
As I have some little fame at stake, a fame 
that I trust may live, when the hate of those 
who " watch for my halting," and the contume- 
lious sneer of those whom accident has made 
my superiors, will, with themselves, be gone 
to the regions of oblivion ; I am uneasy now 
for the fate of those manuscripts. — Will Mrs 

have the goodness to destroy them, or 

return them to me ? As a pledge of friendship 
they were bestowed ; and that circumstance, 
indeed, was all their merit. Most unhappily 
for me, that merit they no longer possess, and 

I hope that Mrs 's goodness, which I well 

know, and ever will revere, will not refuse this 
favour to a man whom she once held in soma 
degree of estimation. 

With the sincerest esteem I have the hon- 
our to be, madam, &c. 



No. CL. 

TO MR CUNNINGHAM. 

25th February, 179-k 
Canst thou minister to a mind diseased? 
Canst thou speak peace and rest to a soul 
tossed On a sea of troubles, without one 
friendly star to guide her course, and dreading 
that the next surge may overwhelm her? 
Canst thou give to a frame, tremblingly alive 
to the tortures of suspense, the stability and 
hardihood of the rock that braves the blast? 
If thou canst not do the least of these, why 
wouldst thou disturb me in my miseries, with 
thy inquiries after me ? 



For these two months I have not been able to 
lift a pen. My constitution and frame were, 
ab origine, blasted with a deep incurable taint 
of hypochondria, which poisons my existence. 
Of late a number of domestic vexations, and 
some pecuniary share in the ruin of these ■ 
times ; losses which, though trifling, were yet 
what I could ill bear, have so irritated me. 
P 



BURNS' WORKS. 



that my feelings at times could only be envied 
by a reprobate spirit listening to the sentence 
that dooms it to perdition. 

Are you deep in the language of consola- 
tion? I have exhausted in reflection every 
topic of corufort A heart at ease would have 
been charmed with my sentiments and reason- 
ings ; but as to myself, I was like Judas Isca- 
riot preaching the gospel ; he might melt and 
mould the hearts of those around him, but his 
own kept ts native incorrigibility. 

Still there are two great pillars that bear us 
up, amid the wreck of misfortune and misery. 
The one is composed of the different modifi- 
cations of a certain noble, stubborn something 
in man, known by the names of courage, forti- 
tude, magnanimity. The other is made up 
of those feelings and sentiments, which, how- 
ever the sceptic may deny them, or the enthu- 
siast disfigure them, are yet, I am convinced, 
original and component parts of the human 
soul ; those senses of the viind, if I may be 
allowed the expression, which connect us with, 
and link us to, those awful obscure realities — 
an all-powerful and equally beneficent God; 
and a world to come, beyond death and the 
grave. The first gives the nerve of combat, 
while a ray of hope beams on the field ; — the 
last pours the balm of comfort into the wounds 
which time can never cure. 

I do not remember, my dear Cunningham, 
that you and I ever talked on the subject of 
feligion at all. I know some who laugh at it, 
as the trick of the crafty few, to lead the 
nndiscerning many; or at most as an uncertain 
obscurity, which mankind can never know any 
thing of, and with which they are fools if they 
give themselves much to do. Nor would I 
quarrel with a man for his irreligion, any more 
than I would for his want of a musical ear. I 
would regret that he was shut out from what, 
to me and to others were such superlative 
sources of enjoyment. It is in this point of 
view, and for this reason, that I will deeply 
imbue the mind of every child of mine with 
religion. If my son should happen to be a 
man of feeling, sentiment, and taste, I shall 
thus add largely to his enjoyments. Let me 
flatter myself that this sweet little fellow who 
is just now running about my desk, will be a 
man of a melting, ardent, glowing heart ; and 
an imagination, delighted with the painter, and 
rapt with the poet. Let me figure him, wan- 
dering out in a sweet evening, to inhale the 
balmy gales, and enjoy the growing luxuriance 
of the spring ; himself the while in the bloom- 
ing youth of life. He looks abroad on all 
nature, and through nature up to nature's God. 
His soul, by swift, delighting degrees, is wrapt 
above this sublunary sphere, until he can be 
silent no longer, and bursts out into the glori- 
ous enthusiasm of Thomson. — 

'« These, as they change, Almighty Father, these 
Are but the varied God. — The rolling year 
Is full of thee." 



And so on, in all the spirit and ardour of that 
charming hymn. 

These are no ideal pleasures ; they are real 
delights, and I ask what of the delights among 
the sons of men are superior, not to say, equal 
to them ? And they have this precious, vast 
addition, that conscious virtue stamps them 
for her own ; and lays hold on them to bring 
herself into the presence of a witnessing, judg- 
ing, and approving God. 



MADAM, 

I dare say this is the first epistle you ever 
received from this nether world. I write you 
from the regions of Hell, amid the horrors of 
the damned. The time and manner of my 
leaving your earth I do not exactly know; as 
I took my departure in the heat of a fever of 
intoxication, contracted at your too hospitable 
mansion ; but on my arrival here, I was fairly 
tried and sentenced to endure the purgatorial 
tortures of this infernal confine, for the space 
of ninety-nine years, eleven months, and 
twenty-nine days ; and all on account of the 
impropriety of my conduct yesternight under 
your roof. Here am I, laid on a bed of pitiless 
furze, with my aching head reclined on a pil- 
low of ever-piercing thorn, while an infernal 
tormentor, wrinkled, and old, and cruel, his 
name, I think, is Recollection, with a whip oi 
scorpions, forbids peace or rest to approach 
me, and keeps anguish eternally awake. Still, 
madam, if I could in any measure be reinstated 
in the good opinion of the fair circle whom my 
conduct last night so much injured, I think it 
would be an alleviation to my torments. For 
this reason I trouble you with this letter. To 
the men of the company I will make no apo- 
logy. — Your husband, who insisted on my 
drinking more than I chose, has no right to 
blame me ; and the other gentlemen were par- 
takers of my guilt. But to you, madam, I 
have much to apologize. Your good opinion 
I valued as one of the greatest acquisitions I 
had made on earth, and I was truly a beast to 

forfeit it. There was a Miss I too, a 

woman of fine sense, gentle and unassuming 
manners — do make, on my part, a miserable 
d — d wretch's best apology to her. A Mrs 

G , a charming woman, did me the honour 

to be prejudiced in my favour; this makes me 
hope that I have not outraged her beyond all 

forgiveness To all the other ladies please 

present my humblest contrition for my conduct, 
and my petition for their gracious pardon. O 
all ye powers of decency and decorum ! whis- 
per to them that my errors, though great, were 



involuntary — that an intoxicated man is the 
vilest of beasts — that it was not in my nature 
to be brutal to any one — that to be rude to a 
woman, when in my senses, was impossible 
with me— but — 



Regret ! Remorse ! Shame ! ye three hell- 
hounds that ever dog my steps and bay at my 
heels, spare me ! spare me ! 

Forgive the offences, and pity the perdition 
of, madam, your humble slave. 



No. CLII. 
TO MRS DUNLOP. 

jiy dear fbiend, 15th December, 1795. 
As I am in a complete Decemberish humour, 
gloomy, sullen, stupid, as even the deity of 
Dulness herself could wish, I shall not drawl 
out a heavy letter with a number of heavier 
apologies, for my late silence. Only one I 
shall mention, because I know you will sym- 
pathize in it : these four months, a sweet little 
girl, my youngest child, has been so ill, that 
every day, a week or less threatened to termi- 
nate her existence. There had much need be 
many pleasures annexed to the states of hus- 
band and father, for God knows, they have 
many peculiar cares. I cannot describe to you 
the anxious, sleepless hours these ties fre- 
quently give me. I see a train of helpless 
little folks ; me and my exertions all then- 
stay; and on what a brittle thread does the 
life of man hang ! If I am nipt off at the 
command of fate ; even in all the vigour of 
manhood as I am, such things happen every 
day— gracious God ! what would become of 
my little flock! 'Tis here that I envy your 
people of fortune. — A father on his death-bed, 
taking an everlasting leave of his children, has 
indeed woe enough; but the man of competent 
fortune leaves his sons and daughters indepen- 
dency and friends ; while I — but I shall run 
distracted if I think any longer on the subject ! 

To leave talking of the matter so gravely, I 
shall sing with the old Scots ballad — 

" O that I had ne'er been manled, 

I would never had nae care ; 
Now I've gotten wife and bairns, 

They cry, crowdie, evermair. 

Crowdie ! ance ; crowdie ! twice ; 

Crowdie ! three times in a day : 
An ye crowdie ony mair, 

Ye'll crowdie a' my meal away." — 



December 2ith. 
We have had a brilliant theatre here, this 
season ; only, as all other business has, it ex- 



ERS. 83 

periences a stagnation of trade from the epide- 
mical complaint of the country, want of cash. 
I mention our theatre merely to lug in an oc- 
casional Address, which I wrote for the benefit- 
night of one of the actresses, and which is as 
follows : — 

ADDRESS. 

Spoken by Miss Fontenelle on her benefit-night, 
Dec. 4, 1795, at the Theatre, Dumfries. 

Still anxious to secure your partial favour, 
And not less anxious, sure, this night than ever, 
A Prologue, Epilogue, or some such matter, 
'Twould vamp my bill, said I, if nothing better ; 
So, sought a Poet, roosted near the skies, 
Told him, I came to feast my curious eyes ; 
Said, nothing like his works was ever printed; 
And last, my prologue-business slily hinted. — 
"Ma'am, let me tell you," quoth my man of 

rhymes : 
" I know your bent — these are no laughing times' 
Can you — but Miss, 1 own I have my fears, 
Dissolve in pause — and sentimental tears — 
With laden sighs, and solemn rounded sentence, 
Rouse from his sluggish slumbers fell Repent- 
ance; 
Paint Vengeance as he takes his horrid stand 
Waving on high the desolating brand, 
Calling the storms to bear hi m o'er a guilty land !" 

I could no more — askance the creature eyeing, 
D'ye think, said I, this face was made for crying? 
I'll laugh, that's poz — nay, more, the world shall 

know it ; 
And so, your servant — gloomy Master Poet. 

Firm as my creed, sirs, 'tis my fix'd belief, 
That Misery's another word for Grief: 
I also think — so may I be a bride ! 
That so much laughter, so much life enjoy'd— 

Thou man of crazy care and ceaseless sigh, 
Still under bleak misfortune's blasting eye; 
Doom'd to that sorest task of man alive — 
To make three guineas do the work of five : 
Laugh in Misfortune's face — the beldam witch '. 
Say, you'll be merry, though you can't be rich. 

Thou other man of care, the wretch in love, 
Who long with jiltish arts and airs hast strove ; 
Measur'st in desperate thought— a rope— thy 

neck — 
Or, where the beetling cliff o'erhangs the deep, 
Peerest to meditate the healing leap : 
Would'st thou be cured, thou silly, moping elf. 
Laugh at her follies — laugh e'en at thyself: 
Learn to despise those frowns now so terrific, 
And love a kinder— that's your grand specific— 

To sum up all, be merry, I advise; 
And as we're merry, may we still be wise, — 



25th, Christmas Morning. 
This, my much-loved friend, is a morning ot 
wishes : accept mine — so Heaven hear me as 
they are sincere ! that blessings may attend 
your steps, and affliction know you not ! lo 
F2 



84 



BURNS' WORKS. 



the charming words of my favourite author, 
The Man of Feeling, " May the great spirit 
bear up the weight of thy gray hairs ; and 
blunt the arrow that brings them rest !" 

Now that I talk of authors, how do you 
like Cowper ? is not the Task a glorious poem ? 
The religion of the Task, bating a few scraps 
of Calvinistic divinity, is the religion of God 
and Nature : the religion that exalts, that en- 
nobles man. Were not you to send me your 
Zeluco in return for mine ? Tell me how you 
like my marks and notes through the book. I 
would not give a farthing for a book, unless I 
were at liberty to blot it with my criticisms. 

I have lately collected, for a friend's perusal, 
all my letters; I mean those which I first 
sketched, in a rough draught, and. afterwards 
wrote out fair. On looking over some old 
musty papers, which from time to time I had 
parcelled by, as trash that were scarce worth 
preserving, and which yet, at the same time, I 
bid not care to destroy, I discovered many of 
those rude sketches, and have written, and am 
writing them out, in a bound MS. for my 
friend's library. As I wrote always to you 
the rhapsody of the moment, I cannot find a 
single scroll to you, except one, about the 
commencement of our acquaintance. If there 
were any possible conveyance, I would send 
you a perusal of my book. 



No. CLIII. 
TO MRS DUNLOP, IN LONDON. 

Dumfries, 20th December, 1795. 
I have been prodigiously disappointed in this 
London journey of yours. In the first place, 
when your last to me reached Dumfries, I was 
in the country, and did not return until too 
late to answer your letter ; in the next place, 
I thought you would certainly take this route ; 
and now I know not what is become of you, 
or whether this may reach you at all. God 
grant that it may find you and yours in pros- 
pering health and good spirits. Do let me 
hear from you the soonest possible. 

As I hope to get a frank from my friend 
Captain Miller, I shall, every leisure hour, 
take up the pen, and gossip away whatever 
comes first, prose or poesy, sermon or song. 
In this last article, I have abounded of late. 
I have often mentioned to you a superb publi- 
cation of Scottish songs which is making its 
appearance in your great metropolis, and where 
I have the honour to preside over the Scottish 
verse, as no less a personage than Peter Pin- 
dar does over the English. I wrote the fol- 
lowing for a favourite air. 



December, 29. 
Since J began this letter I have been appointed 



to act in the capacity of supervisor here, and I 
assure you, what with the load of business, and 
what with that business being new to me, I 
could scarcely have commanded ten minutes to 
have spoken to you, had you been in town, 
much less to have written you an epistle. 
This appointment is only temporary, and dur- 
ing the illness of the present incumbent ; but 
I look forward to an early period when I shall 
be appointed in full form : a consummation 
devoutly to be wished ! My political sins 
seem to be forgiven me. 



This is the season (New-year's-day is now my 
date) of wishing ! and mine are most fervently 
offered up for you! May life to you be a 
positive blessing while it lasts, for your own 
sake ; and that it may yet be greatly prolonged, 
is my wish for my own sake, and for the sake 
of the rest of your friends ! What a transient 
business is life ! Very lately I was a boy ; 
but t'other day I was a young man ; and I 
already begin to feel the rigid fibre and stiffen- 
ing joints of old age coming fast o'er my frame. 
With all my follies of youth, and, I fear, a few 
vices of manhood, still I congratulate myself 
on having had, in early days, religion strongly 
impressed on my mind. I have nothing to say 
to any one as to which sect he belongs to, or 
what creed he believes ; but I look on the man 
who is firmly persuaded of infinite wisdom and 
goodness, superintending and directing every 
circumstance that can happen in his lot — I 
felicitate such a man as having a solid founda- 
tion for his mental enjoyment; a firm prop 
and sure stay, in the hour of difficulty, trouble, 
and distress ; and a never-failing anchor o! 
hope, when he looks beyond the grave. 



January, 12. 
You will have seen our worthy and ingenious 
friend, the Doctor, long ere this. I hope he 
is well, and beg to be remembered to him. I 
have just been reading over again, I dare say 
for the hundred and fiftieth time, his View of 
Society and Manners ; and still I read it with 
delight. His humour is perfectly original— it 
is neither the humour of Addison, nor Swift, 
nor Sterne, nor of any body but Dr Moore. 
By the bye, you have deprived me of Zeluco ; 
remember that, when you are disposed to rake 
up the sins of my neglect from among the ashes 
of laziness. 

He has paid me a pretty compliment, by 
quoting me in his last publication.* 



85 



No. CLIV. 

TO MRS 

20tk January, 1796. 
I cannot express my gratitude to you for 
allowing me a longer perusal of Anacharsis. 
In fact, I never met with a book that bewitched 
me so much ; and I, as a member of the library, 
must warmly feel the obligation you have laid 
us under. Indeed to me the obligation is 
6tronger than to any other individual of our 
society ; as Anacharsis is an indispensable de- 
sideratum to a son of the muses. 

The health you wished me in your morning's 
card, is, I think, flown from me for ever. I 
have not been able to leave my bed to-day till 
about an hour ago. These wickedly unlucky 
advertisements I lent (I did wrong) to a friend, 
and I am ill able to go in quest of him. 

The muses have not quite forsaken me. 
The following detached stanzas I intend to in- 
terweave in some disastrous tale of a shepherd. 



TO MRS DUNLOP. 

3\st January, 1796. 
These many months you have been two pack- 
ets in my debt — what sin of ignorance I have 
committed against so highly valued a friend I 
am utterly at a loss to guess. Alas ! madam, 
ill can I afford at this time, to be deprived of 
any of the small remnant of ncy pleasures. I 
have lately drunk deep of the cup of affliction. 
The autumn robbed me of my only daughter 
and darling child, and that at a distance too, 
and so rapidly, as to put it out of my power to 
pay the last duties to her. I had scarcely be- 
gun to recover from that shock, when I became 
myself the victim of a most severe rheumatic 
fever, and long the die spun doubtful ; until 
after many weeks of a sick-bed, it seems to 
have turned up life, and I am beginning to 
crawl across my room, and once indeed have 
been before my own door in the street. 

When pleasure fascinates the mental sight, 

Affliction purifies the visual ray, 
Religion hails the drear, the untried night, 

That shuts, for ever shuts! life's doubtful day, 



No. CLVI. 
TO MRS R , 

WHO HAD DESIRED HIM TO GO TO THE BIRTH- 
DAY ASSEMBLY ON THAT DAY TO SHOW HIS 
LOYALTY. 

ith June, 1796. 
I am in such miserable health as to be utterly 
incapable of showing my loyalty in any way. 
Racked as I am with rheumatisms, I meet every 
face with a greeting like that of Balak to 
Balaam — " Come curse me Jacob ; and come 
defy me Israel !" So say I— Come curse me 
that east wind ; and come, defy me the north ! 
Would you have me, in such circumstances, to 
copy you out a love song ? 



I may perhaps see you on Saturday, but I 
will not be at the ball.— Why should I? "man 
delights not me, nor woman either !" Can you 
supply me with the song, Let us all be unhappy 
together t — do if you can, and oblige le pauvre 
miserable R- B. 



TO MR CUNNINGHAM. 

Brow, Sea-bathing Quarters, 1th July, 1796. 

MY DEAR CUNNTNGKAM, 

I received yours here this moment, and am 
indeed highly nattered with the approbation of 
the literary circle you mention ; a literary cir- 
cle inferior to none in the two kingdoms. 
Alas ! my friend, I fear the voice of the bard 
will soon be heard among you no more ! For 
these eight or ten months I have been ailing, 
sometimes bedfast and sometimes not; but 
these last three months I have been tortured 
with an excruciating rheumatism, which has 
reduced me to nearly the last stage. You 
actually would not know me if you saw me. 
Pale, emaciated, and so feeble, as occasionally 
to need help from my chair — my spirits fled ! 
fled ! — but I can no more on the subject — only 
the medical folks tell me that my last and only 
chance is bathing and country quarters, and 
riding. The deuce of the matter is this ; when 
an exciseman is off duty, his salary is reduced 
to £35 instead of £50— What way, in the 
name of thrift, shall I maintain myself and 
keep a horse in country quarters — with a wife 
and five children at home, on £35 ? I men- 
tion this, because I had intended to beg your 
utmost interest, and that of all the friends you 
can muster, to move our Commissioners of 
Excise to grant me the full salary. I dare say 
you know them all personally. If they do not 



86 



BURNS' WORKS. 



grant it me, I must lay my account with an 
exit truly en poete — if I die not of* disease, I 
must perish with hunger. 

I have sent you one of the songs j the other 
my memory does not serve me with, and I 
have no copy here ; but I shall be at home 
soon, when I will send it you. Apropos to 
being at home, Mrs Burns threatens in a week 
or two to add one more to my paternal charge, 
which, if of the right gender, I intend shall be 
introduced to the world by the respectable de- 
signation of Alexander Cunningham Burns/ 
My last was James Glencairn ; so you can 
have no objection to the company of nobility. 
Farewell. 



No. CLVIII. 

TO MRS BURNS. 

my dearest love, Brow, Thursday. 

I belayed writing until I could tell you what 
effect sea-bathing was likely to produce. It 
would be injustice to deny that it has eased 
my pains, and I think has strengthened me ; 
but my appetite is still extremely bad. No 
flesh nor fish can I swallow ; porridge and 
milk are the only thing I can taste. I am very 
happy to hear, by Miss Jess Lewars, that you 
are well. My very best and kindest compli- 
ments to her and to all the children. I will 
see you on Sunday. Your affectionate hus- 
band, R. B. 



No. CLIX. 

TO MRS DUNLOP. 

madam, \2th July, 1796. 

I have written you so often, without receiving 
any answer, that I would not trouble you 
again, but for the circumstances in which I 
am. An illness which has long hung about 
me, in all probability will speedily send me 
beyond that bourne whence no traveller returns. 
Your friendship, with which for many years 
you honoured me, was a friendship dearest to 
my soul. Your conversation, and especially 
your correspondence, were at once highly en- 
tertaining and instructive. With what plea- 
sure did I use to break up the seal ! The 
remembrance yet adds one pulse more to my 
poor palpitating heart. Farewell ! ! ! 

R. B. 



The above is supposed to be the last produc- 
tion of Robert Burns, who died on the 21st of 
the month, nine days afterwards. He had, how- 
ever, the pleasure of receiving a satisfactory 
explanation of his friend's silence, and an assur- 
ance of the continuance of her friendship to his 
widow and children ; an assurance that has been 
amply fulfilled. 

It is probable that the greater part of her let- 
ters to him were destroyed by our bard about the 
time that this last was written. He did not 
foresee that his own letters to her were to appear 
in print, nor conceive the disappointment that 
will be felt, that a few of this excellent lady's 
have not served to enrich and adorn the collec- 
tion. 



THE POEMS 



ROBERT BURNS. 



TO THE 

NOBLEMEN AND GENTLEMEN 

OP THE 

CALEDONIAN HUNT. 



My Lords and Gentlemen, 
A Scottish Bard, proud of the name, and 
whose highest ambition is to sing in his 
Country's service — where shall he so properly 
look for patronage as to the illustrious names 
of his native Land ; those who bear the hon- 
ours and inherit the virtues of their Ancestors? 
The Poetic Genius of my Country found me, 
as the prophetic bard Elijah did Elisha — at 
the plough; and threw her inspiring mantle 
over me. She bade me sing the loves, the 
oys, the rural scenes and rural pleasures of 
my native soil, in my native tongue ; I tuned 
my wild, artless notes, as she inspired — She 
whispered me to come to this ancient Me- 
tropolis of Caledonia, and lay my Songs under 
your honoured protection : I now obey her 
dictates. 

Though much indebted to your goodness, I 
do not approach you, my Lords and Gentle- 
men, in the usual style of dedication, to thank 
you for past favours ; that path is so hackneyed 
by prostituted learning, that honest rusticity is 
ashamed of it. Nor do I present this Address 
with the venal soul of a servile Author, look- 
ing for a continuation of those favours : I was 
bred to the Plough, and am independent. I 
come to claim the common Scottish name with 
you, my illustrious Countrymen ; and to tell 
the world that I glory in the title. I come to 
congratulate my Country, that the blood of her 



ancient heroes still runs uncontaminated ; and 
that from your courage, knowledge, and public 
spirit, she may expect protection, wealth, and 
liberty. In the last place, I come to proffer my 
warmest wishes to the Great Fountain of Hon- 
our, the M inarch of the Universe, for your 
welfare and happiness. 

When you go forth to awaken the Echoes, 
in the ancient and favourite amusement of 
your forefathers, may Pleasure ever be of your 
party ; and may Social Joy await your return : 
When harassed in courts or camps with the 
jostlings of bad men and bad measures, may 
the honest consciousness of injured worth 
attend your return to your native Seats ; and 
may Domestic Happiness, with a smiling wel- 
come, meet you at your gates ! May corruption 
shrink at your kindling indignant glance ; and 
may tyranny in the Ruler, and licentiousness 
in the People, equally find you an inexorable 
foe! 

I have the honour to be, 

With the sincerest gratitude, 
and highest respect, 

My Lords and Gentlemen, 
Your most devoted humble servant, 

ROBERT BURNS 

Edinburgh, 
April 4, 1787. , 



POEMS, 

CHTEFLY SCOTTISH. 



THE TWA DOGS: 

A TALE. 

Twas in that place o' Scotland's isle, 
That bears the name o' Auld King Coil, 
Upon a bonnie day in June, 
Wnen wearing thro' the afternoon, 
Twa dogs that were na thrang at hame, 
Forgather'd ance upon a time. 

The first I'll name they ca'd him Caesar, 
Was keepit for his Honour's pleasure : 
His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs, 
Show'd he was nane o' Scotland's dogs ; 
But whalpit some place far abroad, 
Where sailors gang to fish for cod. 

His locked, letter'd, braw brass collar 
Show'd him the gentleman and scholar: 
But tho' he was o' high degree, 
The fient a pride na pride had he ; 
But wad hae spent an hour caressing 
Ev'n with a tinkler gipsey's messin'. 
At kirk or market, mill or smiddie, 
Nae tawted tyke, tho' e'er sae duddie, 
But he wad stan't, as glad to see him, 
And stroan't on stanes an' hillocks wi' him. 

The tither was a ploughman's collie, 
A rhyming, ranting, raving billie, 
Wha for his friend an' comrade had him, 
And in his freaks had Luath ca'd him, 
After some dog in Highland sang,* 
Was made lang syne — Lord knows how lang. 

He was a gash an' faithfu' tyke, 
As ever lap a sheugh or dyke. 
His honest, sonsie, baws'nt face, 
Aye gat him friends in ilka place. 
His breast was white, his towzie back 
Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black ; 
His gawcie tail, wi' upward curl, 
Hung o'er his hurdies wi' a swurl. 



Nae doubt but they were fain o' ither, 
An' unco pack an' thick thegither ; 
Wi' social nose whyles snuffd and snowkit; 
Whyles mice and modieworts they howkit; 
Whyles scour'd awa in lang excursion, 
An' worry'd ither in diversion ; 
Until wi' dafnn weary grown, 
Upon a knowe they sat them down, 
And there began a lang digression, 
About the lords o' the creation. 



I've aften wonder'd honest Luath, 
What sort o' life poor dogs like you have ; 
An' when the gentry's life I saw, 
What way poor bodies lived ava. 

Our Laird gets in his racked rents, 
His coals, his kain, and a' his stents : 
He rises when he likes himsel' ; 
His flunkies answer at the bell ; 
He ca's his coach, he ca's his horse ; 
He draws a bonnie silken purse, 
As lang's my tail, whare, thro' the steeks, 
The yellow letter'd Geordie keeks. 

Frae morn to e'en its nought but toiling, 
At baking, roasting, frying, boilir»g; 
An* tho' the gentry fast are stechin', 
Yet ev'n the ha' folk fill their pechan 
Wi* sauce, ragouts, and sic like trashtrie, 
That's little short o' downright wastrie. 
Our Whipper-in, wee blastit vvonner, 
Poor worthless elf, it eats a dinner, 
Better than ony tenant man 
His Honour has in a' the Ian' : 
An' what poor cot-folk pit their painch in, 
I own its past my comprehension. 

LUATH. 

Trowth, Caesar, whyles they're fash't eneugh { 

A cotter howkin in a sheugh, 

Wi' dirty stanes biggin a dyke, 

Baring a quarry, and sic like, 

Himself, a wife, he thus sustains, 

A smytrie o' wee duddie weans, 
, An' nought but his han' darg, to keep 
[ Them right and tight in thack ar' rape. 



90 



BURNS' WORKS. 



An* when they meet wi' sair disasters, 
Like loss o' heath, or want of masters, 
Ye maist wad think, a wee touch langer, 
An' they maun starve o' cauld and hunger ; 
But, how it comes, I never ken'd yet, 
They're maistly wonderfu' contented ; 
An' buirdly chiels, an clever hizzies, 
Are bred in sic a way as this is. 



But then to see how ye're negleckit, 
How huff'd, and cuff'd, and disrespeckit ! 
L — d, man, our gentry care as little 
For delvers, ditchers, and sic cattle ; 
They gang as saucy by poor fo'k, 
As I wad by a stinking brock. 

I've notic'd on our Laird's court day 
An' mony a time my heart's been wae, 
Poor tenant bodies, scant o' cash, 
How they maun thole a factor's snash ; 
He'll stamp an' threaten, curse an* swear, 
He'll apprehend them, poind their gear ; 
While they maun stan', vvi' aspect humble, 
An' hear it a', an' fear an* tremble ! 

I see how folk live that hae riches ; 
But surely poor folk maun be wretches : 



They're nae sae wretched's ane wad think ; 
Tho' constantly on poortith's brink : 
They're sae accustomed wi' the sight, 
The view o't gi'es them little fright 

Then chance an' fortune are sae guided, 
They're aye in less or mair provided ; 
An' tho' fatigu'd wi' close employment, 
A blink o' rest's a sweet enjoyment. 

The dearest comfort o' their lives, 
Their grushie weans an' faithfu' wives ; 
The prattlin things are just their pride 
That sweetens a' their fire-side. 

An' wbyles twalpennie worth o' nappy 
Can mak the bodies unco happy ; 
They lay aside their private cares, 
To mind the Kirk and State affairs : 
They'll talk o' patronage and priests, 
Wi' kindling fury in their breasts, 
Or tell what new taxation's comin', 
And ferlie at the folk in Lon'on. 

As bleak-fac'd Hallowmas returns, 
They get the jovial, rantin' kirns, 
When rural life, o' every station. 
Unite in common recreation : 
Love blinks, Wit slaps, an' social Mirth, 
Forgets there's Care upo" the earth. 

That merry day the year begins, 
They bar the door on frosty winds ; 
The nappy reeks wi' mantling ream 
An' sheds a heart-inspiring steam ; 



The Iuntin' pipe, and sneeshin* mill, 
Are handed round wi' right guid will : 
The cantie auld folks crackin' crouse, 
The young anes rantin' thro' the house,— 
My heart has been sae fain to see them, 
That I for joy hae barkit wi' them. 

Still it's owre true that ye hae said, 
Sic game is now owre aften play'd. 
There's monie a creditable stock 
O' decent, honest, fawsont fo'k, 
Are riven out baith root and branch, 
Some rascal's pridefu' greed to quench, 
Wha thinks to knit himself the faster 
In favours wi' some gentle master, 
Wha aiblins thrang a parliamentin', 
For Britain's guid his saul indentin' — 

CESAR. 

Haith, lad, ye little ken about it : 
For Britain's guid I — guid faith, I doubt it \ 
Say, rather, gaun as Premiers lead him, 
An' saying aye or no's they bid him ; 
At operas an' plays parading, 
Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading; 
Or may be, in a frolic daft, 
To Hague or Calais takes a waft, 
To mak a tour, and tak a whirl, 
To learn bon ton and see the worl*. 

There, at Vienna, or Versailles, 
He rives his father's auld entails ! 
Or by Madrid he takes the rout, 
To thrum guitars and fecht wi' nowt; 
Or down Italian vista startles, 
Wh— re-hunting among groves o' myrtles t 
Then bouses drumly German water, 
To mak himsel* look fair and fatter, 
An' clear the consequential sorrows, 
Love gifts of Carnival signoras. 
For Britain's guid J — for her destruction 1 
Wi' dissipation, feud, an' faction. 

LUATH. 

Hech man ! dear sirs ! is that the gate 
They waste sae mony a braw estate ! 
Are we sae foughten an' harass'd 
For gear to gang that gate at last ! 

O would they stay aback frae courts, 
An' please themselves wi* countra sportG, 
It wad for every ane be better, 
The Laird, the Tenant, an* the Cotter ! 
For thae frank, rantin', ramblin* billies, 
Fient haet o' them's ill-hearted fellows ; 
Except for breakin' o' their timmer, 
Or speakin' lightly o' their limmer, 
Or shootin' o' a hare or moor-cocK, 
The ne'er a bit they're ill to poor folk. 

But will ye tell me, Master Ccesar, 
Sure great folk's life's a life o' pleasure ! 
Nae cauld or hunger e'er can steer them, 
The very thought o't need na fear them. 



L — d, man, were ye but whyles where I am, 
The gentles ye wad ne'er envy 'em. 

It's true, they need na starve or sweat, 
Thro' winter's cauld or simmer's heat ; 
They've nae sair wark to craze their banes, 
An' rill auld age wi gripes an' granes : 
But human bodies are sic fools, 
For a* their colleges an* schools, 
That when nae renl ills perplex them, 
They mak enow themselves to vex them. 
An' aye the less they hae to stmt them, 
In like proportion less will hurt them ; 
A country fellow at the pleugh, 
His acres till'd, he's right eneugh ; 
A country girl at her wheel, 
Her dizzens done, she's unco weel ; 
But Gentlemen, an' Ladies warst, 
"VVi' ev'ndown want o' wark are curst. 
They loiter, lounging, lank, an* lazy; 
Tho* deil haet ails them, yet uneasy; 
Their days insipid, dull, an' tasteless ; 
Their nights unquiet, lang, an' restless ; 
An* ev'n their sports, their balls, an' races, 
Their gallopin' through public places. 
There's sic parade, sic pomp, an' art, 
The joy can scarcely reach the heart. 
The men cast out in party matches, 
Then sowther a' in deep debauches : 
A.e night they're mad wi' drink an' wh-ring, 
Neist day their life is past endnrij g. 
The ladies arm-in-arm in clusters, 
As great and gracious a' as sisters ; 
But hear their absent thoughts o' ither, 
They're a' run deils an' jads thegither. 
Whyles o'er the wee bit cup and platie, 
They sip the scandal potion pretty ; 
Or lee lang nights, wi' ciabbit leuks 
Pore owre the devil's pictur'd beuks ; 
Stake on a chance a farmer's stackyard, 
An' cheat like ony unhang'd blackguard. 

There's some exception, man an' woman ; 
But this is Gentry's life in common. 

By this the sun was out o' sight : 
An* darker gloaming brought the night : 
The bum-clock humm'd wi' lazy drone; 
The kye stood rowtin' i' the loan : 
Wben up they gat an shook their lugs, 
Rejoic'd they were na men but dogs i 
And each took aff his several way, 
Resolv'd to meet some ither day. 



SCOTCH DRINK. 



Gle him strong drink, until he wink 
That's sinking in despair ; 

An* liquor guid to tire his bluid, 
That's prest wi' grief an' care ; 



There let him bouse, and deep carouse 

Wi' bumpers flowing o'er, 
Till he forgets his loves or debts, 

An' minds his griefs no more. 

Solomon's Proverbs, xxxi. 6, 7. 



Let other poets raise a fracas, 

'Bout vines, and wines, and drunken Bacchus, 

An' crabbit names an' stories wrack us, 

An' grate our lug, 
I sing the juice Scots bear can mak us, 

In glass or jug. 

O Thou, my Muse / guid auld Scotch Drink 
Whether thro' wimpling worms thou jink, 
Or, richly brown, ream o'er the brink, 

In glorious faem, 
Inspire me, till I lisp and wink, 

To sing thy name 

Let husky Wheat the baughs adorn. 
And Aits set up their awnie horn, 
An' Pease and Beans at e'en or morn, 

Pwtume the plain, 
Leeze me on thee, John Barleycorn, 

Thou king o' grain ! 

On thee aft Scotland chows her cood, 
In souple scones, the wale o' food ! 
Or tumblin' in the boiling flood, 

Wi' kail an' beef; 
But when thou pours thy strong heart's blood, 
There thou shines chief. 

Food fills the wame, an' keeps us livin' ; 
Tho' life's a gift no worth receivin,' 
When heavy dragg'd wi' pine and grievin' ; 

But oil'd by thee, 
The wheels o' life gae down-hill, scrievin', 

Wi' rattlin' glee. 

Thou clears the head o' doited Lear; 
Thou cheers tbe heart o' drooping Care ; 
Thou strings the nerves o' Labour sair ; 

At's weary toil ; 
Thou even brightens dark Despair 

Wi' gloomy smile. 

Aft, clad in massy silver weed, 
Wi' Gentles thou erects thy head ; 
Yet humbly kind in time o' need, 

The poor man's wine. 
His wee drap parritch, or his bread, 

Thou kitchens fine. 

Thou art the life o' public haunts ; 
But thee, what were our fairs and rants? 
Ev'n godly meetings o' the saunts, 

By thee inspir'd, 
When gaping they besiege the tents, 

Are doubly fir'd. 

That merry night we get the corn in, 
O sweetly then thou reams the horn in ! 
Or reekin' on a New-year morning 
In cog or bicker, 



BURNS' WORKS. 



An' just a wee drap sp'ritual burn in, 
An' gusty sucker ! 

When Vulcan gies his bellows breath, 
An' ploughmen gather wi' their graith, 
O rare ! to see the fizz an' freath 

P the lugget caup ! 
Then Burncwin* comes on like death 

At ev'ry chaup. 

Nae mercy, then, for aim or steel ; 
The brawnie, bainie, ploughman chiel', 
Brings hard owrehip, wi' sturdy wheel, 

The strong forebammer, 
Till block an' studdie ring and reel 

Wi' dinsome clamour. 

When skirlin weanies see the light, 
Thou maks the gossips clatter bright, 
How fumblin' cuifs their dearies slight, 

Wae worth the name ! 
Nae howdie gets a social night, 

Or plack frae them. 

When neebours anger at a plea, 
An' just as wud as wud can be, 
How easy can the barley bree 
Cement the 



It's aye the cheapest lawyer's fee, 

To taste the barrel. 

Alake ! that e'er my Muse has reason 
To wyte her countrymen wi' treason •, 
But mony daily weet their weason 

Wi' liquors nice, 
An' hardly, in a winter's season, 

E'er spier her price. 

Wae worth that brandy, burning trash, 
Fell source o' monie a pain an' brash ! 
Twins monie a poor, doylt, drunken hash, 

O' half his days ; 
An' sends, beside, auld Scotland's cash 

To her warst faes. 

Ye Scots, wha wish auld Scotland well ! 
Ye chief, to you my tale I tell, 
Poor plackless devils like mysel' ! 
It sets you ill, 
Wi* bitter, dearthfu' wines to mell, 
Or foreign gill. 

May gravels round his blather wrench, 
An' gouts torment him inch by inch, 
Wha twists his gruntle wi' a glunch 

O' sour disdain, 
Out owre a glass o' whisky punch 

Wi' honest men. 

O Whisky I soul o' plays an' pranks ! 
Accept a Bardie's humble thanks ! 
When wanting thee, what tuneless cranks 
Are my poor verses ! 



-they rattle i' their ranks 
At ither's a — s • 



Thee, Ferintosh ! O sadly lost ! 
Scotland, lament frae coast to coast ! 
Now colic grips, an barkin hoast, 

May kill us a' ; 
For loyal Forbes' chartered boast 

Is ta'en awa' ! 

Thae curst horse leeches o' th' Excise, 
Wha mak the Whisky Stells their prize ! 
Haud up thy han', Deil ! ance, twice, thrice! 

There, seize the blinkers ! 
An* bake them up in brunstane pies 

For poor d — n'd drinkers. 

Fortune ! if thou'll but gie me still 
Hale breeks, a scone, an' Whisky gill, 
An* rowth o' rhyme to rave at will, 

Tak a' the rest, 
An' deal't about as thy blind skill 

Directs thee best. 



THE AUTHOR'S 

EARNEST CRY AND PRAYER* 

TO THE 

SCOTCH REPRESENTATIVES 



HOUSE OF COMMONS. 



Dearest of Distillation ! last and best 

How art thou lost ! Parody on Milton, 



Ye Irish Lords, Ye Knights an* Squires, 
Wha represent our brughs an' shires, 
And doucely manage our affairs 

In parliament, 
To you a simple Poet's prayers 

Are humbly sent. 

Alas ! my roupet Muse is hearse ! 
Your honours' hearts wi' grief 'twad pierce 
To see her sittin" on her a — 

Low i' the dust, 
An' screichin' out prosaic verse, • 

An' like to brust ! 

Tell them wha hae the chief direction, 
Scotland an' me's in great affliction, 
E'er sin' they laid that curst restriction 

On Aquavitcei 
An' rouse them up to strong conviction 
An' move their pity. 

• This was written before the a 

f session 1786 ; for wl 

n tiieir most grateful thanks. 



Stand forth, an' tell yon Premier Youth, 
The honest, open, naked truth : 
Tell him o' mine an Scotland's drouth, 

His servants humble: 
The muckle devil blaw ye south, 

If ye dissemble ! 

Does ony great man glunch an' gloom ! 
Speak out, an' never fash your thumb 
Let posts an' pensions sink or soom 

Wi' them wha grant 'em : 
If honestly they canna come, 

Far better want 'em. 

In gath'ring voles you were na slack ; 
Now stand as tightly by your tack ; 
Ne'er claw your lug, an' ridge your back, 

An' hum an' haw ; 
But raise your arm, an' tell your crack 
Before them a*. 

Paint Scotland greeting owre her thrissle ; 
Her mutchkin stoup as toom's a whissle ; 
An* d-mn'd Excisemen in a bussle, 

Seizin' a steU, 
Triumphant crushin't like a mussel, 
Or lampit shell. 

Then on the tither hand present her, 
A blackguard Smuggler right behint her, 
An' cheek-for-chow, a chuffie Vintner, 



iguingjoin, 
Picking her pouch as bare as winter 
Of a' kind coin. 

18 there, that bears the name o' Scot, 
But feels his heart's bluid rising hot, 
To see his poor auld Mither's pot 

Thus dung in staves, 
An' plunder'd o' her hindmost groat 

By gallows knaves ? 

Alas ! I'm but a nameless wight, 
Trode i' the mire out o' sight ! 
But could I like Montyomeries fight, 

Or gab like Boswell, 
There's some sark-necks I wad draw tight, 

An* tie some hose well. 

God bless your Honours, can ye see't, 
The kind, auld, cantie Carlin greet, 
An' no get warmly to your feet, 

An' gar them hear it, 
An' tell them wi' a patriot heat, 

Ye winna bear it ! 

Some o' you nicely ken the laws, 
To round the period an' pause, 
An' wi' rhetoric clause on clause 

To mak harangues ; 
Then echo thro' Saint Stephen's wa's 

Auld Scotland's wrangs. 

Dempster, a true blue Scot I'se warran ; 
Thee, aith. detesting, chaste Kilkerran ;* 



An' that glib-gabbet Highland Baron, 

The Land o' Graham;* 

An' ane, a chap that's damn'd auldfarran, 
Dundas his name. 

Ershine, a spunkie Norland billie; 
True Campbells, Frederick, an' Hay, 
An' Livingstone, the bauld Sir Willie 

An' money ithers, 
Whom auld Demosthenes or Tully 

Might own for blithers. 

Arouse, my boys ! exert your mettle, 
To get auld Scotland back her kettle ; 
Or faith ! I'll wad my new pleugh-pettle, 

Ye'll see't or lang, 
She'll teach you, wi' a reekin' whittle, 
Anither sang. 

This while she's been in cank'rous mood, 
Her lost Militia fir'd her bluid •, 
(Deil na they never mair do guid, 

Play'd her that pliskie !) 
An' now she's like to rin red-wud 

About her Whisky. 

An' L — d if ance they pit her till't, 
Her tartan petticoat she'll kilt, 
An' durk an' pistol at her belt, 

She'll tak the streets, 
An' rin her whittle to the hilt, 

I' the first she meets ! 

For G — d sake, Sirs ! then speak her fair, 
An' straik her cannie wi' the hair, 
An' to the muckle house repair, 

Wi' instant speed, 
An' strive, wi' a' your wit an' lear, 

To get remead. 

Yon ill-tongu'd tinkler, Charlie Fox, 
May taunt you wi' his jeers an' mocks ; 
But gie him't bet, my hearty cocks ! 

E'en cowe the caddie ! 
An' send him to his dicing box 

An* sportin' lady. 

Tell yon guid bluid o' auld Boconnock's, 
I'll be his debt twa mashlum bannocks, 
An' drink his health in auld Nanse Tinnock'sf 

Nine times a week, 
If he some scheme, like tea an* winnocks, 

Wad kindly seek. 

Could he some commutation broach, 
I'll pledge my aith in guid braid Scotch, 
He need na fear their foul reproach 

Nor erudition, 
Yon mixtie-maxtie queer hotch-potch, 

The Coalition. 

Auld Scotland *ias a raucle tongue ; 
She's just a devil -vi* a rung ; 



* The present Duke of Montrose.— (1800.) 
t A worthy old H..stess of the Author's in Munch* 
line, where he sometimes studies Politico over a glass* 
of guid auld Scotch j >rink. 



9+ 



BURNS' WORKS. 



An' if she promise auld or young 

To tak their part, 

Tho' by the neck she should be strung 
She'll no desert. 

An' now, ye chosen Five- and- Forty, 
May still your Mither's heart support ye : 
Then, tho' a Minister grow dorty, 

An' kick your place, 
Ye'll snap your fingers, poor an' hearty, 

Befo e his face. 

God bless your Honours a' your days, 
Wi' soups o' kail and brats o' claise. 
In spite o' a' the thievish kaes 

That haunt St Jamie's I 
Your humble poet sings an' prays 

While Rab his name is. 



POSTSCRIPT. 

Let half-starv'd slaves, in warmer skies 
See future wines, rich clustering rise ; 
Their lot auld Scotland ne'er envies, 

But blithe and frisky, 
She eyes her freeborn martial boys, 

Tak aff their Whisky. 

What tho* their Phoebus kinder warms, 
While fragrance blooms and beauty charms ! 
When wretches range, in f'amish'd swarms, 

The scented groves, 
Or hounded forth, dishonour arms 
In hungry droves. 

Their gun's a burden on their shouther j 
They downa bide the stink o' pouther ; _ 
Their bauldest thought's a hank'ring swither 

To stan' or rin, 
Till skelp— a shot— they're aff, a' throwther, 

To save their skin. 

But bring a Scotsman frae his hill, 
Clap in his cheek a Highland gill, 
Say, such is royal George's will, 

An' there's the foe, 
He has nae thought but how to kill 
Twa at a blow. 

Nae cauld, faint-hearted doubtings tease him ; 
Death comes, with fearless eye he sees him ; 
Wi' bluidy hand a welcome gies him ; 

An' when he fa's, 
His latest draught o' breathin' lea'es him 

In faint huzzas. 

Sages their solemn een may steek, 
An' raise a philosophic reek, 
An' physically causes seek, 

In clime an! season ; 
But tell me Whisky's name in Greek, 

I'll tell the reason. 

Scotla7id, my auld, respected Mither ! 
Tho' whyles ye mnistify your leather, 



Till whare you sit, on craps o' heather, 
Ye tine your dam ; 

(Freedom and Whisky gang thegither !) 
Tak aff your dram ! 



THE HOLY FAIR.* 



A robe of seeming truth and trust — 

Hid crafty Observation ; 
And secret hung with poison'd crust, 

The dirk of Defamation : 
A mask that like the gorget show'd 

Dye-varying on the pgeon ; 
And for a mantle large and bi oad, 

He wrapt him in Religion. 

Eyptjcrisy-a-la-made. 



I. 

Upon a simmer Sunday morn, 

When Nature's face is fair, 
I walked forth to view the corn, 

An' snuff the callar air. 
The rising sun owre Galston muirs, 

Wi' glorious light was glintin' 
The hares were hirplin' down the furs, 

The lav'rocks they were chantin' 

Fu' sweet that day. 

II. 
As lightsomely I glowr'd abroad 

To see a scene say gay, 
Three hizzies, early at the road, 

Cam skelpin' up the way ; 
Twa had manteeles o' dolefu' black, ' 

But ane wi' lyart lining; 
The third that gaed a wee a-back, 

Was in the fashion shining, 

Fu' gay that day. 

III. 
The twa appear'd like sisters twin, 

In feature, form, an' claes : 
Their visage wither'd, lang, am thin, 

An' sour as ony slaes ; 
The third came up, hap-stap-an'-loup, 

As light as ony lammie, 
An' wi' a curchie low did stoop, 

As soon as e'er she saw me, 

Fu' kind that day. 

IV. 

Wi' bannet aff, quoth I, ' Sweet lass, 

I think ye seem to ken me ; 
I'm sure I've seen that bonnie face, 

But yet I canna name ye.' 
Quo' she, an' laughin' as she spak, 

An' tak's me by the hands, 
" Ye, for my sake, ha'e gi'en the feck 

Of a* the ten commands 

A screed some day. 



44 My name is Fun — your cronie dear, 

The nearest friend ye ha'e ; 
An' this is Superstition here, 

An' that's Hypocrisy. 
I'm gaun to Holy Fair, 

To spend an hour in dafrm' ; 
Gin ye'll go there, yon runkled pair, 

We will get famous laughin' 

At them this day." 

VI. 

Quoth I, « With a' my heart I'll do't ; 

I'll get my Sunday's sark on, 
An' meet you on the holy spot ; 

Faith we'se hae fine remarkin* !' 
Then I gaed hame at crowdie time, 

An' soon I made me ready ; 
For roads were clad, frae side to side, 

Wi' monie a weary body, 

In droves that day. 

VII. 
Here farmers gash, in ridin' graith 

Gaed hoddin' by their cotters : 
Their swankies young, in braw braid-claith 

Are springin' o'er the gutters. 
The lasses, skelpin' barefoot, thrang, 

In silks an' scarlets glitter ; 
Wi' sweet-milk cheese in monie a whang, 

An furls bak'd wi' butter, 

Fu' crump that day. 

VIII. 
When by the plate we set our nose, 

Weel heaped up wi' ha'pence, 
A greedy glowr Black Bonnet throws, 

An we maun draw our tippence. 
Then in we go to see the show, 

On ev'ry side they're gatherin', 
Some carrying deals, some chairs an' stoo.s 

An' some are busy bletherin', 

Right loud that day. 

IX. 
Here stands a shed to fend the show'rs, 

An' screen our countra Gentry, 
There, racer Jess, an' twa-three whores, 

Are blinkin' at the entry. 
Here sits a raw of tittlin' jades, 

Wi' heavin' breast and bare neck, 
An' there a batch of wabster lads,_ 

Blackguardin' frae K ck, 

For fun this day. 



' Here some are thinkin' on their sins, 

An' some upo' their claes ; 
Ane curses feet that fyl'd his shins, 

Anither sighs an' prays ; 
On this hand sits a chosen swatch, 

Wi' screw'd up grace- proud faces ; 
On that a set o' chaps at watch, 
Thrang winkin' on the lasses 

To chairs that day. 



XT. 
O happy is the man an* blest ! 

Nae wonder that it pride him ! 
Wha's ain dear lass, that he likes best, 

Comes clinkin' down beside him ! 
Wi' arm repos'd on the chair-back, 

He swee:ly does compose him ! 
Which, by degrees, slips round her neck, 

An's loot upon her bosom 

Unkenn'd that day. 

XII. 

Now a' (.he congregation o'er 

Is silent expectation ; 
For speels the holy door 

Wi' tidings o' damnation. 
Should Hornie, as in ancient days, 

'Mang sons o' God present him, 
The vera sight o' 's face, 

To's ain net hame had sent him 

Wi' fright that day. 

XIII. 
Hear how lie clears the points o' faith 

Wi* rattlin' an thumpin' ! 
Now meekly calm, now wild in wrath, 

He's stampin' an' he's jumpin' ! 
His lengthen'd chin, his turn'd-up snout, 

His eldritch squeel and gestures, 
Oh, how they fire the heart devout, 

Like cantharidian plasters, 

On sic a day ' 

XIV. 

But hark ! the tent has chang'd its voice ; 

There's peace and rest nae langer : 
For a' the real judges rise, 

They canna sit for anger. 
opens out his cauld harangues 

On practice and on morals ; 
An' aff the godly pour in thrangs, 

To gie the jars an' barrels 

A lift that day. 

XV. 

What signifies his barren shine 

Of moral pow'rs and reason ? 
His English style, an' gesture fine, 

Are a' clean out o' season. 
Like Socrates or Antonine, 

Or some auld pagan Heathen, 
The moral man he does define, 

But ne'er a word o' faith in 

That's right that day. 

xvj. 

In guid time comes an antidote 
Against sic poison'd nostrum : 

For , frae the water-fit, 

Ascends the holy rostrum : 

See, up he's got the word o' God, 
An' meek an' mim has view'd it, 



BURNS' WORKS. 



While Common-sense has ta'en the road, 
An' aff, an' up the Cowgate,* 

Fast, fast, that day. 

XVII. 
Wee neist the guard relieves, 

An' orthodoxy raibles, 
Tho' in his heart he weel believes, 

And thinks it auld wives' fables : 
But, faith ; the birkie wants a manse 

So cannily he hums them; 
A.ltho' his carnal wit and sense 

Like hafflins-ways o'ercomes him 
At times that day. 

xviii. 

Now but an' ben, the change-house fills, 

Wi' yill-caup commentators : 
Here's crying out for bakes and gills, 

And there the pint stoup clatters ; 
While thick an' thrang, an' loud an' lang, 

Wi' logic, an' wi' Scripture, 
They raise a din, that in the end, 

Is like to breed a rupture 

O' wrath that day. 

XIX. 
Leeze me on Drink! it gi'es us mair 

Than either School or College : 
It kindles wit, it waukens lair, 

It pangs us fou o' knowledge. 
Be't whisky gill, or penny vvheep, 

Or ony stronger potion, 
It never fails, on drinking deep, 

To kittle up our notion 

By night or day. 

XX. 

The lads an' lasses, blythely bent 

To mind baith saul and body, 
Sit round the table weel content, 

An' steer about the toddy. 
On this ane's dress, an' that ane's leuk, 

They're makin' observations ; 
While some are cozie i' the neuk, 

An' forming assignations 

To meet some day. 

XXI. 

But now the L— d's ain trumpet touts, 

Till a' the hills are rairin', 
An' echoes back return the shouts : 

Black is na spairin' : 

His piercing words, like Highland swords 

Divide the joints an' marrow ; 
His talk o' Hell, where devils dwell, 

Our very sauls does harrow f 

Wi' fright that day. ' 

XXII. 
A vast, unbottom'd boundless pit, 

Fill'd fou o' lowin' brunstane, 
Wha's ragin' flame and scorchin* heat. 

Wad melt the hardest whun-stane I 



The half asleep start up wi' fear, 
And think they hear it roarin', 

When presently it does appear, 
'Twas but some neighbour snorin' 
Asleep that day. 

XXIII. 
'Twad be owre lang a tale to tell 

How monie stories past, 
An' how they crowded to the yill, 

When they were a' dismist : 
How drink gaed round, in cogs an' caups, 

Amang the furms an' benches ; 
An' cheese an' bread, frae women's laps, 

Was dealt about in lunches 

An' dawds that day. 

XXIV. 

In comes a gaucie, gash guidwife, 

An' sits down by the fire, 
Syne draws her kebbuck an' her knife, 

The lasses they are shyer. 
The auld guidmen, about the grace, 

Frae side to side they bother, 
Till some ane by his bonnet lays, 

And gi'es them't like a tether, 

Fu' Jang that day. 

XXV. 
Waesucks : for bim that gets nae lass, 

Or lasses that hae naething t 
Sma' need has he to say a grace 

Or melvie his braw claithing ! 
O wives be mindfu' ance yoursel' 

How bonnie lads ye wanted, 
An' dinna for a kebbuck-heei, 

Let lasses be affronted 

On sic a day. 

XXVI. 

Now Clinkumbell, wi' rattlin' tow, 

Begins to jow an' croon ; 
Some swagger hame, the best they dow, 

Some wait the afternoon. 
At slaps the billies halt a blink, 

Till lasses strip their shoon : 
Wi' faith an' hope, an' love an' drink, 

They're a' in famous tune, 

For crack that day. 

XXVII. 

How monie hearts this day converts 

O' sinners and o' lasses 1 
Their hearts o' stane, gin night, are gane 

As salt as ony flesh is. 
There's some are fou o' love divine ; 

There's some are fou o' brandy ; 
An' mony jobs that day begin, 

May end in houghmagandie 

Some ither day. 



DEATH AND DOCTOR HOR 

BOOK: 



A TKUE STOUY. 

Some books are lies frae end to end, 
And some great lies were never penn'd 
Ev'n Ministers, they hae been kenn'd, 

In holy rapture, 
A rousing whid, at times, to vend, 

And nail't wi' Scripture. 

But this that I am gaun to tell, 
Which lately on a night befell, 
Is jU6t as true's the De'il's in hell 

Or Dublin city: 
That e'er he nearer comes oursel' 

'S a muckle pity. 

The Clachan yill had made me canty, 

I was nae ton. bin just had plenty; 

I stacher'd whiles, but yet took tent aye 

To free the ditches ; 
An' hillocks, stanes, an' bushes, kenn'd aye 

Frae ghaists an' witches. 

The rising moon began to glow'r 
The distant Cumnock hills out-owre ; 
To count her horns, wi' a' my pow'r, 

I set mysel' ; 
But whether she had three or four, 

I couldna tell. 

I was come round about the hill, 
And todlin down on Wdle's mill 
Setting my staff wi' a' my skill, 

To keep me sicker ; 
Tho' leeward whyles, against my will, 

I took a bicker. 

I there wi' Something did forgather, 

Thai put me in an eerie swither : 

An' awfu' scythe, out-owre ae shouther, 

Clear-dangling, hang ; 
A three-taed leister on the ither, 

Lay, large an' lang. 

Its stature seem'd lang Scotch ells tvva, 
The queerest shape that e'er I saw, 
For fient a wame it had ava ; 

And then, its shanks, 
They were as thin, as sharp, an' sma' 

As cheeks o' branks. 

«Guid-een,'quo'I ; ' Friend ! haeyebeenmavvin', 
' When ither folk are busy sawin' ?' # 
It seem'd to mak' a kind o' stan', 

But naething spak : 
At length, says I, ' Friend, where ye gaun, 

Will ye go back ?' 

It spak right howe, — ' My name is Death, 
But be na fley'd.'— Quoth I, « Guid faith, 
Ye're maybe come to stap my breath ; 
But tent me, billie : 

* This rencounter happened in seed-time, 1785. 



N- I red ye weel, tak care o' skaith, 

See there's a guiiv !' 

' Guidman,' quo' he, ' put up yom whittle, 
I'm no design'd to try its mettle ; 
But if I did, I wad lie kittle 

To be mislear'd, 
I wad na mind it, no, that spittle 

Out owre my beard.' 

' Weel, weel !' says I, ' a bargain be't ; 
Come, gie's your hand, an' sae we're gree't ; 
We'll ease our shanks an' tak a seat, 

Come gie's your news ; 
This while * ye hae been mony a gate, 

At mony a house.' 



* Ay, ay !' quo' he, an' shook his head, 
' Its een a lang, lang time indeed 
Sin' I began to nick the thread, 

An' choke the breath : 
Folk maun do something for their bread, 

A it' sae maun Death. 

' Sax thousand years are near hand fled 

Sin' I was to the hutching bred, 

An' mony a scheme in vain's been laid, 

To stap or scar me ; 
Till ane Hornbook 's t taen up the trade, 

An' faith, he'll waur me. 

' Ye ken Jock Hornbook, i' the Clachan, 
Deil mak his king's hood in a spleuchan ! 
He's grown sae weel acquaint wi' Buchan i. 

An' ither chaps, 
The weans baud out their fingers laughin' 

An' pouk my hips 

' See, here's a scythe, and there's a dart, 
They hae pierc'd mony a gallant heart : 
But Doctor Hornbook, wi' his art 

And cursed skill, 
Has made them baith no worth a f— t, 

Damn'd haet they'll kilL 

' 'Twas but yestreen, nae farther gaen, 

I threw a noble throw at ane ; 

Wi' less, I'm sure, I've hundreds slain ; 

But deil-ma-care, 
It just play'd did on the bane, 

But did nae mail'. 

' Hornbook was by, wi' ready art, 
And had sae fortified the part, 
That when I looked to my dart, 

It was sae blunt. 
P'ient haet o't wad hae pierc'd the heart 

Of a kail-runt. 

' I drew my scythe in sic a fury, 



* An epidemical lever u .1- I hen ra^im; in that country 
t This gentleman, Dr Hornbook, is, professionally 
a brother of the Sovereign Order of the Ferula; but 
by intuiiion ami inspiration, i = at ojcl- an Apothecary. 
Surgeon, aod Phvsician. 

t Buchan's Done-.'.,- Midi.-iue. 



98 



BURNS' WORKS. 



I nearhand coupit wi' my hurry, 
But yet the bauld Apothecary 

Withstood the shock ; 
I might aa weel hae tried a quarry 

O' hard whin rock. 

' E^n them he carina get attended, 
Altho' their face he ne'er had kend it, 
Just in a kail-blade, and send it, 

As soon's he smells't, 
Baith their disease, and what will mend it, 

At once he tells't. 

' An then a' doctors' saws and whittles, 
Of a' dimensions, shapes, an' mettles, 
A' kinds o' boxes, mugs, an' bottles, 

He's sure to hae; 
Their Latin names as fast he rattles 

As A B C. 

• Calces o' fossils, earths, and trees ; 
True Sal-marinum o* the seas ; 
The Farina of beans and pease, 

He has't in plenty ; 
Aqua-fontis, what you please, 

He can content ye. 

* Forbye some new, uncommon weapons, 
Urinus Spiritus of capons ; 

Or Mite-horn shavings, filings, scrapings ; 

Distill'd per se; 
Sal-alkali o' Midge-tail clippins, 

.An' mony mae.' 

* Waes me for Johnny Gecfs Hole * now ;' 
Quo' I, ' If that the news be true ! 
His Draw calf-ward where gowans grew, 

Sae white an'bonnie, 
Nae doubt they'll rive it wi' the plough ; 

They'll ruin Johnnie !' 

The creature grain'd an eldritch laugh, 
An' says, ' Ye need na yoke the pleugh, 
Kirk-yards will soon be till'd eneugh, 

Tak ye nae fear ; 
They'll a' be trench'd wi' mony a sheugh 

In twa-three year. 

' Whare I kill'd ane a fair strae death, 
By loss o' blood or want o' breath, 
This night I'm free to tak my aith, 

That Hornbook's skill 
Has clad a score i' their last claith, 

By drap an' pill. 

' An honest Wabster to his trade, 

Whase wife's twa nieves were scarce weel bred, 

Gat tippence-worth to mend her head, 

When it was sair ; 
The wife slade cannie to her bed, 

But ne'er spak mair. 

A countra Laird had ta'en the batts, 
Or some curmurring in his guts, 



His only son for Hornbook sets, 

An' pays him wellj 

The lad, for twa guid gimmer pets, 
Was laird himsel*. 

' A bonnie lass, ye ken her name, 

Some ill-brewn drink had hov'd her wame ; 

She trusts hersel', to hide the shame, 

In Hornbook's care ; 
Horn sent her aff to her lang hame, 

To hide it there. 

1 That's just a swatch o' Hornbook's way; 
Thus goes he on from day to day, 
Thus does he poison, kill, an' slay, 

An's weel paid for't ; 
Yet stops me o' my lawfu' prey, 

Wi' his damn'd dirt. 

' But hark ! I'll tell you of a plot, 
Though dinna ye be speaking o't ; 
I'll nail the self-conceited sot, 

As dead's a herrin' ; 
Neist time we meet, I'll wad a groat, 

He gets his fairin* ! 

But just as he began to tell, 

The auld kirk- hammer strak the bell, 

Some wee short hour ayont the twal, 

Which rais*d us baith ; 
I took the way that pleased myseb, 

And sae did Death. 



THE BRIGS OF AYR : 



Inscribed to J. B— 



-, Esq. Ayr. 



The simple Bard, rough at the rustic plough, 
Learning his tuneful trade from every bough ; 
The chanting linnet, or the mellow thrush, 
Hailing the setting sun, sweet, in the green 

thorn bush : 
The soaring lark, the perching red-breast shrill* 
Or deep-toned plovers, grey, wild whistling o'er 

the hill ; 
Shall he, nurst in the Peasant's lowly shed, 
To hardy independence bravely bred, 
By early Poverty to hardship steel'd, 
And train 'd to arms in stern Misfortune's 

field- 
Shall he be guilty of their hireling crimes, 
The servile, mercenary Swiss of rhymes ? 
Or labour hard the panegyric close, 
With all the venal soul of dedicating Prose? 
No ! though his artless strains he rudely sings, 
And throws his hand uncouthly o'er the strings, 
He glows with all the spirit of the Bard, 
Fame, honest fame, his great, his dear reward. 
Still if some Patron's generous care he trace,. 
Skilled in the secret, to bestow with grace; 

When B befriends his humble name 

And hands the rustic stranger up to fame. 



With heart-felt throbs his grateful bosom 

swells, 
The godlike bliss, to give alone excels. 



'Twas when the stacks get on their winter 

hap, 
And thack and rape secure the toil-won crap : 
Potatoe bings are snugged up frae skaith 
Of coming Winter's biting, frosty breath; 
The bees rejoicing o'er their simmer toils, 
Unnumber'd buds an' flowers' delicious spoils, 
Seal'd up with frugal care in massive waxen 

piles, 
Are doom'd by man, that tyrant o'er the weak, 
The death o'"devils, smoor'd wi' brimstone 

reek : 
The thundering guns are heard on ev'ry side, 
The wounded coveys, reeling, scatter wide ; 
The feather'd field-mates, bound by Nature's 

tie, 
Sires, mothers, children, in one carnage lie : 
( What warm, poetic heart, but inly bleeds, 
And execrates man's savage, ruthless deeds !) 
Nae mair the flow'r in field or meadow springs: 
Nae mair the grove wi' airy concert rings, 
Except, perhaps, the Robin's whistling glee, 
Proud o' the height o' some bit half-lang tree : 
The hoary morns precede the sunny days, 
Mild, calm, serene, wide spreads the noontide 

blaze, 
While thick the gossamour waves wanton in 

the rays. 
'Twas in that season, when a simple bard, 
Unknown and poor, simplicity's reward, 
Ae night, within the ancient brugh of Ayr, 
By whim inspired, or haply prest wi' care ; 
He left his bed, and took his wayward route, 
And down by Simpso?i's* wheel'd the left 

about ; 
(Whether impell'd by all-directing Fate 
To witness what I after shall narrate ; 
Or whether rapt in meditation high, 
He wander'd out he knew not where nor why), 
The drowsy Dungeon-clock,f hadnumber'd two, 
And Wallace towerf had sworn the fact was 

true : 
The tide-swoln Firth, with sullen-sounding 

roar, 
Thro' the still night dash'd hoarse along the 

shore : 
All else was hush'd in Nature's closed e'e; 
The silent moon shone high o'er tow'r and tree: 
The chilly frost, beneath the silver beam, 
Crept, gently-crusting,o'er the glittering stream. 

When, lo ! on either hand the list'ning bard, 
The clanging sough of whistling wings he 

heard ; 
Two dusky forms dart thro' the midnight, air, 
Swift as the Gos\ drives on the wheeling hare ; 



• A noted tavern at the Auld Brig end. 

t The two steeples. 

4 The gos-hawk, or falcon. 



MS 99 

Ane on th Auld Brig his airy shape uprears, 
The ither flutters o'er the rising piers .• 
Our warlike Rhymer instantly descry'd 
The Sprites that owre the Brigs of Ayr preside. 
(That'Bards are second-sighted is nae joke, 
An' ken the lingo of the sp'ritual folk ; 
Fays, Spunkies, Kelpies, a' they can explain 

them, 
And ev'n the vera deils they brawly ken them. 
Auld Brig appear'd of ancient Pictish race, 
The vera wrinkles Gothic in his face : 
He seem'd as he wi' Time had warstl'd lang, 
Yet teughly doure, he bade an unco bang. 
New Brig was buskit in a braw new coat, 
That he, at Lon'on frae ane Adams got ; 
In's hand five taper staves as smooth's a bead, 
Wi' virls and whirlygigums at the head. 
The Goth was stalking round with anxious 

search, 
Spying the time-worn flaws in every arch ; 
It chanc'd his new-come neebor took his e'e, 
And e'en a vex'd an' angry heart had he ! 
Wi' thieveless sneer to see each modish mien. 
He, down the water, gies him thus guide'en — 



I doubt na', frien', ye'll think ye're nae sheep- 
shank, 
Ance ye were streekit o'er frae bank to bank 
But gin ye be a brig as auld as me, 
Tho' faith that day I doubt ye'll never see ; 
There'll be, if that day come, I'll wad a boddle, 
Some fewer whigmaleeries in your noddle. 

NEW BRIG. 

Auld Vandal, ye but show your little mense, 
Just much about it wi' your scanty sense ; 
Will your poor narrow foot-path of a street, 
Where twa wheel -barrows tremble when they 

meet, 
Your ruin'd formless bulk, o' stane an' lime, 
Compare wi' bonnie Brigs o' modern time ? 
There's men o' taste would tak' the Ducat- 
stream,* 
Tho> they should cast the very sark and swim, 
Ere they would grate their feelings wi' the view 
Of sic an ugly Gothic hulk as you. 

AULD BRIG 

Conceited gowk ! puff'd up wi' windy pride ! 
This monie a year I've stocd the flood an' tide j 
An' tho' wi' crazy eild I'm sair forfairn, 
I'll be a Brig when ye're a shapeless cairn ! 
As yet ye little ken about the matter, 
But twa-three winters will inform ye better. 
When heavy, dark, continued, a'-day rains, 
Wi' deepening deluges o'erflow the plains ; 
When from the hills where springs the brawl- 
ing Coil, 
Or stately Z,ugar's mossy fountains boil, 
Oi where the Greenock winds his moorland 

course, 
Or haunted Garpal f draws his feeble source, 



• A noted ford, just above the Auld Brig. 
t The banks of Garpal Water is one of the few places 

G2 



L.ofC. 



100 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Arous'd by blust'ring winds and spotted thowes, 
In mony a torrent down his sna-broo rowes ; 
While crashing ice, borne on the roaring speat, 
Sweeps dams, an' mills, an' brigs, a' to the 

gate; 
And frorr. Glenbuck* down to the Ratton hey,\ 
Auld Ayr is just one lengthen'd tumbling sea ; 
Then down ye'll hurl, deil nor ye never rise ! 
And dash the gumlie jaups up to the pouring 

skies, 
A lesson sadly teacinng, to your cost, 
That Architecture's noble art is lost ! 

NEW BRIG. 

Fine Architecture, trowth, I needs must say't 

o't! 
The L — d be thankit that we've tint the gate 

o't! 
Gaunt, ghastly, ghaist-alluring edifices, 
Hanging with threat'ning jut, like precipices; 
O'er arching, mouldy, gloom -inspiring coves, 
Supporting roofs fantastic, stony groves : 
Windows and doors, in nameless sculpture 

drest, 
With order, symmetry, or taste unblest ; 
Forms like some bedlam statuary's dream, 
The craz'd creations of misguided whim ; 
Forms might be worshipp'd on the bended 

knee, 
And still the second dread command be free, 
Their likeness is not found on earth, in air, or 

sea. 
Mansions that would disgrace the building 

taste 
Of any mason, reptile, bird, or beast ; 
Fit only for a doited Monkish race, 
Or frosty maids forsworn the dear embrace, 
Or cuifs of later times, wha held the notion 
That sullen gloom was sterling true devotion. 
Fancies that our guid Brugh denies protection, 
And soon may they expire, unblest with re- 
surrection I 

AULD BRIG. 

O ye, my dear-remember'd ancient yealings, 
Were ye but here to share my wounded feel- 
ings ! 
Ye worthy Proveses, an' mony a Bailie, 
Wha in the paths o' righteousness did toil aye ; 
Ye dainty Deacons, an' ye douce Conveners, 
To whom our moderns are but causey- 
cleaners ; 
Ye godly Councils wha hae blest this town ; 
Ye godly Brethren of the sacred gown, 
"Wha meekly gae your hurdles to the smiters ; 
And (what would now be strange) ye godly 

Writers.- 
A* ye douce folk I've borne aboon the broo, 
Were ye but here, what would ye say or do ! 
flow would your spirits groan in deep vex- 
ation. 
To see each melancholy alteration ; 



In the West of Scotland, where those fancy-scaring be- 
ings, known by the name of Ghaists, still continue 
pertinaciously to inhabit. 

* The source of the river Ayr. 

t A small landing-place above the large key. 



And agonizing, curse the time and place 
When ye begat the base, degenerate race ! 
Nae langer Rev'rend Men, their country's 

glory, 
In plain braid Scots hold forth a plain braid 

story ! 
Nae langer thrifty Citizens, an' douce, 
Meet owre a pint, or in the Council house : 
But staumrel, corky-headed, graceless Gentry, 
The herryment and ruin of che country; 
Men, three parts made by tailors and by bar- 
bers, 

Wha waste your well-hain'd gear on d d 

new Brigs and Harbours I 

NEW BRIG. 

Now baud you there ! for faith ye've said 
enough, 
And muckle mair than ye can mak to 

through, 
As for your Priesthood, I shall say but little 
Corbies and Clergy are a shot right kittle : 
But, under favour o' your langer beard, 
Abuse o' Magistrates might weel be spared ; 
To liken them to your auld warld squad, 
I must needs say comparisons are odd. 
In Ayr, Wag-wits nae mair can hae a handle 
To mouth ' a Citizen,' a term o' scandal : 
Nae mair the Council waddles down the 

street 
In all the pomp of ignorant conceit ; 
Men wha grew wise priggin' owre hops an' 

raisins, 
Or gather'd lib'ral views in Bonds and Seisins. 
If haply Knowledge, on a random tramp, 
Had shored them with a glimmer of his lamp, 
And would to Common-sense, for once be- 
trayed them, 
Plain dull Stupidity stept kindly in to aid 
them. 



What farther clishmaclaver might been said, 
What bloody wars, if Sprites had blood to 

shed, 
No man can tell ; but all before their sight, 
A fairy train appear'd in order bright : 
Adown the glitt'ring stream they featly danced s 
Bright to the moon their various dresses 

glanced : 
They footed o'er the wat'ry glass so neat, 
The infant ice scarce bent beneath their feet. 
While arts of Minstrelsy among them rung, 
And soul ennobling bards heroic ditties sung. 
O had M'Lauchlin,* thairm-inspiring sage, 
Been there to hear this heavenly band engage, 
When thro' his dear Strathspeys they bore 

with Highland rage ; 
Or when they struck old Scotia's melting airs, 
The lover's raptured joys or bleeding cares ; 
How would his Highland lug been nobler fired, 
And even his matchless hand with finer touch 

inspir'd ! 

* A well known performer of Scottish music on the- 



101 



No guess could tell what instrument appear'd, 
But all the soul of Music's self was heard ; 
Harmonious concert rung in every part, 
While simple melody pour'd moving on the 

heart. 
The Genius of the stream in front appears, 
A venerable chief advanced in years ; 
His hoary head with water-lilies crown'd, 
His manly leg with garter tangle bound. 
Next came the loveliest pair in all the ring, 
Sweet Female Beauty hand in hand with 

Spring ; [ Joy 

riien, crown'd with flow'ry hay, came Rural 
And Summer, with his fervid-beaming eye : 
All-cheering Plenty, with her flowing horn, 
Led yellow Autumn wreath'd with nodding 

corn ; [show, 

Then Winter's time-bleached locks did hoary 
By Hospitality with cloudless brow; 
Next follow'd Courage with his martial stride, 
From where the Fed wild-woody coverts 

hide ; 
Benevolence, with mild benignant air, 
A female form, came from the tow'rs of Stair : 
Learning and Worth in equal measures trode 
From simple Catrine, their long.lov'd abode : 
Last, vvhite-rob'd Peace, crown'd with a hazel 

wreath, 
To rustic Agriculture did bequeath 
The broken iron instruments of death : 
At sight of whom our Sprites forgat their 

kindling wrath. 



THE ORDINATION 



For sense thev little owe to Frugal Heav'n- 
To please the Mob they hide the little giv'n. 



I. 

Kilmarnock Wabsters, fidge and claw, 

An' pour your creeshie nations ; 
An' ye wha leather rax an' draw, 

Of a* denominations. 
Swith to the Laiyh Kirk, ane an' a', 

An' there tak up your stations; 
Then afF to Begbie's in a raw, 

An' pour divine libations 

For joy this day. 

II. 
Curst Common-sense, that imp o' hell, 

Cam in wi' Maggie Lauder ;* 
But O aft made her yell, 

An' R sair misca'd her ; 

This day, M' takes the flail, 

An' he's the boy will blaud her ! 



He'll clap a shanqan on her tail, 
An" set the bairns to daud her 

Wi' dirt this day. 

III. 
Mak haste an' turn king David owre, 

An' lilt wi' holy clangor ; 
O' double verse come gie us four, 

An' skirl up the Bangor : 
This day the Kirk kicks up a stoure, 

Nae mair the knaves shall wrang her, 
For heresy is in her power, 

And gloriously she'll whang her 

Wi' pith this day. 

IV. 
Come let a proper text be read, 

An' touch it aff wi' vigour, 
How graceless Ham* leugh at his Dad, 

Which made Canaan a niger ; 
Or Phineasf drove the murdering biade, 

Wi' whore-abhorring rigour ; 
Or Zipporah,t the scaulding jade, 

Was like a bluidy tiger 

I* the inn that day. 



There, try his mettle on the creed, 

An' bind him down wi' caution, 
That Stipend is a carnal weed, 

He taks but for the fashion ; 
An> gie him o'er the flock to feed, 

An' punish each transgression ; 
Especial, rains that cross the breed, 

Gie them sufficient threshin', 

Spare them nae day. 

VI. 

Now auld Kilmarnock, cock thy tail, 

An* toss thy horns fu' canty ; 
Nae mair thou'lt rowt out-owre the dale 

Because thy pasture's scanty ; 
For lapfu's large o' gospel kail 

Shall fill thy crib in plenty, 
An' runts o' grace, the pick and wale, 

No gi'en by way o' dainty, 

But ilka day. 

VII. 
Nae mair by Babel's streams we'll weep, 

To think upon our Zion ; 
An' hing our fiddles up to sleep, 

Like baby-clouts a-dryin' ; 
Come, screw the pegs with tunefu' cheep, 

An' owre the thairms be tryin' ; 
Oh, rare ! to see our elbucks wheep, 

An' a like lamb-tails flyin* 

Fu' fast this day . 

VIII. 
Lang Patronage, wi' rod o' aim, 
Has shored the Kirk's undoin', 



102 



BURNS' WORKS. 



As lately Fenwick, sair forfairn, 

Has proven to its ruin : 
Our Patron, honest man ! Glencairn, 

He saw mischief was brewing ; 
An' like a godly elect bairn 

He's waled us out a true ane, 

An' sound this day. 

IX. 

Now R harangue nae mair, 

But steek your gab for ever ; 
Or try the wicked town of Ayr, 

For there they'll think you clever ; 
Or, nae reflection on your lear, 

Ye may commence a shaver ;' 
Or to the Netherton repair, 

An' turn a carpet weaver 

Affhand this day. 

X. 

M and you were just a match, 

We never had sic twa drones ; 
Auld Hornie did the Laigh Kirk watch, 

Just like a winkin' baudrons : 
An' aye he catch'd the tither wretch, 

To fry them in his caudrons j 
But now his honour maun detach, 

Wi" a* his brimstone squadrons, 
_;... Fast, fast, this day, 

XL 
See, see auld Orthodoxy's faes, 

She's swingein' through the city ; 
Hark how the nine-tail'd cat she plays ! 

I vow it's unco pretty : 
There Learning, vvi' his Greekish face, 

Grunts out some Latin ditty : * 
An' Common-sense is gaun, she says, 

To mak to Jamie Beattie 

Her plaint this day. 

XII. 

But there's Morality himsel', 

Embracing a' opinions ; 
Hear, how he gies the tither yell, 

Between his twa companions ; 
See, how she peels the skin an' fell, 

As ane were peelin' onions ! 
Now there — they're packed aff to hell, 

An' banish'd our dominions, 

Henceforth this day. 

XIII. 

O happy day ! rejoice, rejoice ! 

Come bouse about the porter ! 
Morality's demure decoys 

Shall here nae mair find quarter : 
M' , R , are the boys, 

That heresy can torture : 
They'll gie her on a rape a hoyse, 

An' cowe her measure shorter 

By the head some day. 

XIV. 
Come bring the tither mutchkin in, 
An' here's for a conclusion, 



To every New Light* mother's son, 
From this time forth Confusion ; 

If mair they deave us wi" their din, 
Or Patronage intrusion, 

We'll light a spunk, an' ev'ry skin, 
We'll rin them aff in fusion 

Like oil, some day. 



TO THE REV. MR - 



Right Sir ! your text I'll prove it true. 
Though Heretics may laugh ; 

For instance ; there's yoursel' just now, 
God knows, an unco Calf I 

An' should some Patron be so kind, 

As bless you wi' a kirk, 
I doubt nae, Sir, but then we'll find, 

Ye're still as great a Stirk. 

But, if the Lover s raptur'd hour 

Shall ever be your lot, 
Forbid it, every heavenly Power, 

You e'er should be a Stot t 

Tho', when some kind, connubial Dear, 

Your but-and-ben adorns, 
The like has been that you may wear 

A noble head of horns. 

And in your lug, most reverend James, 

To hear you roar and rowte, 
Few men o' sense will doubt your claims 

To rank amang the nowte. 

And when ye're number'd wi' the dead. 



Below a grassy hillock. 



joeiow a grassy nuiocK, 
Wi' justice they may mark your h 
' Here lies a famous Bullock !' 



ADDRESS TO THE DEIL. 



O thou ! whatever title suit thee, 
Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie, 
Wha in yon cavern grim an' scotie, 

Clos'd under hatches, 
Spairges about the brunstane cootie, 

To scaud poor wretches 

Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee, 
An' let poor damned bodies be ; 

. New Light is a cant phrase in the West of Scotiaud, 
for those religious opinions which Dr Taylor of Nor. 
wich has defended so strenuously. 



I'm sure sma' pleasure it can gie, 
E'en to a deil, 

To skelp an' scaud poor dogs like me, 
An' hear us squeel ! 

Great is thy pow'r, an' great thy fame j 
Far kend and noted is thy name ; 
An' tho' yon lowin' heugh's thy hame, 

Thou travels far ; 
An* faith ! thou's neither lag nor lame, 
Nor blate nor scaur. 

Whyles, ranging like a roarin' lion, 
For prey, a' holes and corners tryin' ; 
Whyles on the strong-wing'd tempest flyin'. 

Tiding the kirks ; 
Whyles, in the human bosom pryin', 

Unseen thou lurks. 



I've heard my reverend Grannie say, 
In lanely glens you like to stray ; 
Or where auld ruin'd castles gray, 

Nod to the moon, 
Ye fright the nightly wand'rer's way, 

Wi' eldritch croon. 

When twilight did my Graunie summon, 
To say her prayers, douce honest woman ! 
Aft yont the dyke she's heard you bummin' ! 

Wi' eerie drone ; 
Or, rustlin', thro' the boortries coming 
Wi' heavy groan. 

Ae dreary, windy, winter night, 
The stars shot down wi' sklentin' light, 
Wi' you, mysel', I gat a fright, 

A yont the lough ; 
Ye, like a rash- bush stood in sight, 

Wi' waving sough. 

The cudgel in my nieve did shake, 
Each bristl'd hair stood like a stake, 
When wi' an eldritch stour, quaick — quaick- 

Amang the springs, 
Awa ye squatter'd like a drake, 

On whistling wings. 

Let Warlocks grim, an' wither'd hays, 
Tell how wi' you on ragweed nags, 
They skim the muirs, and dizzy crags, 

Wi' wicked speed ; 
And in kirk-yards renew their leagues, 

Owre howkit dead. 

Thence countra wives, wi' toil an* pain, 
May plunge an' plunge the kirn in vain; 
For oh ! the yellow treasure's ta'en 

By witching skill; 
An 1 dawtit, twal-pint Hawkivs gaen 

As yell's the Bill. 

Thence mystic knots mak great abuse, 
On young Guidman, fond, keen, an' crouse ; 
When the best wark-lume i' the house, 
By cantrip wit, 



Is instant made no worth a louse, 
Just at the bit. 

When thowes dissolve the snawy hoord, 
An' float the jinglin' icy.boord, 
Then Water-kelpies haunt the foord, 
By your direction, 
Am nighted Travelers are allured 

To their destruction. 

An- aft your moss-traversing Spunkies 
Decoy the wight that late and drunk is ; 
The bleezin', curst, mischievous monkeys 

Delude his eyes, 
Till in some miry slough he suiik is, 

Ne'er mair to rise. 

When Masons' mystic word an' grip, 
In storms an' tempests raise you up, 
Some cock or cat your rage maun stop, 
Or, strange to tell ; 
The youngest Brother ye wad whip 

AfT straught to hell ! 

Lang syne, in Eden's bonnie yard, 
When youthfu' lowers first were pair'd, 
An' all the soul of love they shared, 

The raptured hour, 
Sweet on tne frgrant flowery swaird 
In shady bower ; 

Then you, ye auld, snic-drawing dcg ! 
Ye came to Paradise incog. 
An' played on man a cursed brogue, 

(Black be your fa' !) 
An' gied the infant world a shog, 

'Maist ruined a . 

D'ye mind that day, when in a bizz, 
Wi' reekit duds, and reestit gizz, 
Ye did present your emoutie phiz 

'Mang better folk, 
An' sklented on the man of Uz 

Your spitefu' joke ? 

An' how ye gat him i' your thrall, 
An' brak him out o' house an' hall, 
While scabs and blotches did him gall, 

Wi' bitter claw, 
An' lowsed his ill tongued wicked Scawl, 

Was warst ava ? 

But a' your doings to rehearse, 
Your wily snares an' fechtin' fierce, 
Sin' that day Michael* did you pierce, 

Down to this time, 
Wad ding a Lallan tongue, or Erse, 

In prose or rhyme. 

An' now, auld Cloot.s, I ken ye're thinkin', 
A certain Bardie's rantin', diinkin', 
Some luckless hour will send him linkin', 
To your black pit ; 



» Vide Milton, 1 



BURNS' WORKS. 



But faith ! he'll turn a corner, jinkin', 
And cheat you yet. 

But, fare ye weel, auld Nichie-ben I 
O wad ye tak a thought and men' ' 
Ye aiblins might — I dinna ken — 

Still hae a stake — 
I'm wae to think upon yon den, 

Even for your sake ! 



DEATH AND DYING WORDS 



POOR MAILIE, 
THE AUTHOR'S ONLY PET YOWE, 

AN UNCO MOURNFU' TALE. 

As Mailic, an' her lambs thegither, 
Were ae day nibbling on the tether, 
Upon her cloot she coost a hitch, 
An' owre she warsled in the ditch ; 
There, groaning, dying, she did lie, 
When Hughoc* he came doytin by. 

Wi' glowrin' een, and lifted han's, 
Poor Hughoc like a statue stan's : 
He saw her days were near- hand ended, 
But. wae's my heart ! he could na mend it! 
He gaped wide, but naething spak ! 
At length poor Mailie silence brak. 

' O thou, whase lamentable face 
Appears to mourn my waefu' case ! 
yiy dying words attentive hear, 
An' bear them to my Master dear. 

« Tell him, if e'er again he keep 
As muckle gear as buy a sheep, 
O, bid him never tie them mair 
Wi' wicked strings o' hemp or hair J 
But ca' them out to park or hill, 
An* let them wander at their will : 
So may his flock increase, an' grow 
To scores o' lambs, an' packs o' woo' ' 

' Tell him, he was a master kin', 
An' aye was guid to me an' mine : 
An' now my dying charge I gie him, 
My helpless lambs I trust them wi' him. 

' O bid him save their harmless lives, 
Frae dogs, an' tods, an* butchers' knives 
But gie them guid cow milk their fill, 
Till they be fit to fend themsel' ; 
An' tent them duly, e'en an' morn, 
Wi' teats o' hay an' rips o' corn. 



# A neebor herd-callan. 



' An' may they never learn the gaets, 
Of ither vile, wanrestfu' pets 1 
To slink thro' slaps, an' reave an' steal, 
At stacks o' pease, or stocks o' kail. 
So may they, like their great forbears, 
P'or mony a year come thro the sheers : 
So wives will gie them bits o' bread, 
A n' bairns greet for them when they're dead. 

' My poor toop-lamo, my son an' heir, 

bid him breed him up wi' care ! 
An' if he live to be a beast, 

To pit some havins in his breast, 
An' warn him, what I winna name, 
To stay content wi' yowes at hame ; 
An" no to rin an' wear his cloots, 
Like ither menseless, graceless, brutes. 

' An' neist my yowie, silly thing, 
Guid keep thee frae a tether string ! 
O' may thou ne'er forgather up 
Wi' ony blastit moorland toop : 
But aye keep mind to moop an' mell 
Wi' sheep o' credit like thysel' I 

' An' now, my bairns, wi' my last breath, 

1 lea'e my blessin' wi' you baith : 
An' when you think upo' your mither, 
Mind to be kin' to ane anither. 

' Now, honest Hughoc, dinna fail 
To tell my master a' my tale ; 
An' bid him burn this cursed tether, 
An', for thy pains, thou'se get my blether.' 

This said, poor Mailie turn'd her head, 
And closed her een amang the dead. 



POOR MAILIE'S ELEGY. 

Lament in rhyme, lament in prose, 
Wi' saut tears trickling down your nose ; 
Our bardie's fate is at a close, 

Past a remead ; 
The last sad cape-stane o' his woes ; 

Poor Mailie's dead I 

It's no the loss o' warl's gear, 
That could sae bitter draw the tear, 
Or mak our bardie, dowie, wear 

The mourning weed : 
He's lost a friend and neebor dear, 

In Mailie dead. 
Thro' a' the town she trotted by him ; 
A lang half-mile she coulc descry him { 
Wi' kindly bleat, when she did spy him, 

She ran wi' speed ; 
A friend mair faithfu' ne'er cam nigh him, 

Than Mailie dead. 
I wat she was a sheep o' sense, 
An' could behave hersel' wi' mense : 
I'll say'U she never brack a fence, 

Thro' thievish greed. 



Our bardie, lamly, keeps Hie spence 
Sin' Muilie's dead. 

Or, if lie wanders up the howe, 
Her living image in her yowe 
Comes bleating to him, owre the knowe, 

For bits o' bread j 
An' down the briny pearls rowe 

For Mailie dead. 

She was nae get o' moorland tips, 
Wi' tawted ket, an' hairy hips : 
For her forbears were brought in ships 

Frae yont the Tweed! 
A bonnier Jieesh ne'er cross'd the clips 

Than Mailie dead. 

Wae worth the man wha first did shape 
That vile, wunchancie thing — a rape ! 
It maks guid fellows girn an' gape, 

Wi' ehokin' dread ; 
An' Robin's bonnet wave wi' crape, 
For Mailie dead. 

O, a' ye bards on bonnie Doon ! 
An' wha on Ayr your chaunters tune ! 
Come, join the melancholious croon 
O' Robin's reed ! 
His heart will never get aboon 

His Mailie dead. 



Friendship ! mysterious cement of the soi 
Sweet'ner of life, nnd solder of society ! 
I owe thee much ! Blair. 



Dear S , the sleest, paukie thief, 

That e'er attempted stealth or rief, 
Ye surely hae some warlock-breef 

Owre human hearts; 
For ne'er a bosom yet was prief 

Against your arts. 

For me, I swear by sun an' moon, 
And every star that blinks aboon, 
Ye've cost me twenty pair o' shoon, 

Just gaun to see you : 
And every ither pair that's done, 

Mair taen I'm wi' you. 

That auld capricious carlin, Nature, 
To mak amends for scrim pit stature, 
She's turn'd you aff, a human creature 

On herjirst plan, 
And in her freaks, on every feature, 

She's wrote, the Man. 

Just now I've taen the fit o' rhyme, 
My barmie noddle's working prime, 
My fancy yerkit up sublime 

Wi' hasty summon ; 



MS. 105 

Hae ye a leisure rromerif's time 

io bear what's comin' 2 

Some rhyme a neebor's name to lash •, 
Some rhyme (vain thought !) for needfu 1 rash, 
Some rhyme to court the countra clash, 

An' raise a din; 
For me an aim I never fash ; 

I rhyme for fun. 

The star that rules my luckless lot 
Has fated me the russet coat, 
An' damned my fortune to the groat : 

But in requit, 
Has bless,d me wi' a random shot 

O' countra wit. 

This wnile my notion's taen a sklent, 
To try my fate in guid black prent ; 
But still the mair I'm that way bent, 

Something cries ' Hoolie 
I red you, honest man, tak tent! 

Ye'll shavv your folly. 

' There's ither poets, much your betters, 
Far seen in Greek, deep men o' letters, 
Hae thought they had ensured their debtors, 

A' future ages ; 
Now moths deform in shapeless tetters, 
Their unknown pages. 

Then fareweel hopes o* laurel-boughs, 
To garland my poetic brows 
Henceforth I'll rove where busy plougtos 
Are whistling thrang, 
An' teach the lanely heights an' howes 
My rustic sang. 

I'll wander on, with tentless heed 
How never-halting moments speed, 
Till fate shall snap the brittle thread ; 
Then, all unknown, 
I'll lay me with th' inglorious dead, 
Forgot and gone ! 

But why o' death begin a tale ? 
Just now we're living, sound an' hale, 
Then top and maintop crowd the sail, 

Heave care o'er side ! 
And large, before enjoyment's gale, 
Let's tak' the tide. 

This life, sae far's I understand, 
Is a' enchanted fairy land, 
Where pleasure is the magic wand, 

That, wielded right, 
Maks hours like minutes, hand in hand, 

Dance by fu' light. 

The magic-wand then let us wield 
For ance that five-an'-forty's speel'd, 
See crazy, weary, joyless eild, 

Wi' wrinkled face, 
Comes hostin', hirplin', owre the field, 
Wi' creepin' pace. 



106 



BURNS' WORKS 



draws near the 



When ance life 1 
gloamin', 

Then fareweel vacant careless roamin' ; 
An" fareweel cheerf'u' tankards f'oamin', 

An' social noise ; 
An' fareweel dear deluding woman, 
The joy of joys ! 

O Life ! how pleasant in thy morning, 
Young Fancy's rays the hills adorning ! 
Cold pausing Caution's lesson scorning, 

We frisk away, 
Like school-boys, at the expected warning, 
To joy and play. 

We wander there, we wander here, 
We eye the rose upon the brier, 
Unmindful that the thorn is near, 

Amang the leaves : 
And though the puny wound appear, 

Short while it grieves. 

Some lucky, find a flowery spat, 
For which they never toiled nor swa*- 
They drink the sweet and eat the fat, 

But care or pain 
And haply eye the barren hut 

With high disdain. 

With steady aim, some Fortune chase ; 
Keen hope does every sinew brace : 
Thro* fair, thro' foul, they urge the race, 

And seize the prey : 
Then cannie in some cozie place, 

They close the day. 

An* others, like your humble servan', 
Poor wights ! nae rules or roads observin'; 
To right or left, eternal swervin', 

They zig-zag on ; 
Till curst wi' age, obscure an' starvin', 
They aften groan. 

Alas ! what bitter toil an' straining — 
But truce with peevish poor complaining ! 
Is Fortune's fickle Luna waning ? 

E'en let her gang, 
Beneath what light she has remaining, 

Let's sing our sang. 

My pen I here fling to the door, 
And kneel, ' Ye Pow'rs !' and warm implore, 
Tho' I should wander terra o'er, 

In all her climes, 
Grant me but this, I ask no more, 

Aye rowth o* rhymes. 

' Gie dreeping roasts to countra lairds^ 
Till icicles hing frae their beards ; 
Gie fine braw claes to fine life-guards, 

An' maids of honour 
An' yill an" whisky gie to cairds, 

Until they sconner 

* A title, Dempster merits it ; 
A garter gie to Willie Pitt • 



Gie wealth to some be-ledger'd cit, 
In cent, per cent 

But give me real, sterling wit, 

An- I'm content. 

' While ye are pleased to keep me hale, 
I'll sit down o'er my scanty meal, 
Be't water-brose, or muslin-kail, 

Wi' cheerf'u' face, 
As lang's the muses dinna fail 

To say the grace.' 

An anxious e'e I never throws 
Behint my lug, or by my nose ; 
I jouk beneath misfortune's blows, 

As weel's I may: 
Sworn foe to sorrow, care, an' prose, 

I rhyme away. 

O ye douce folk, that live by rule, 
Grave, tideless -blooded, calm and cool, 
Compar'd wi' you — O fool ! fool ! fool ! 

How much unlike ! 
Your hearts are just a standing pool, 
Your lives, a dyke ! 

Nae hair-brain'd sentimental traces 
In your unletter'd nameless faces ; 
In arioso trills and graces 

Ye never stray, 
But gravissimo, solemn basses 

Ye hum away. 

Ye are sae grave, nae doubt ye're wise, 
Nae ferly tho' ye do despise 
The hairum-scairum, ram-stam boys, 

The rattlin' squad : 
I see you upward cast your eyes — 

— Ye ken the road. — 

Whilst I — but I shall haud me there — 
Wi' you I'll scarce gang ony where — 
Then, Jamie, I shall say nae mair, 

But quat my sang, 
Content wi' you to mak a pair, 

Whare'er I gang. 



A DREAM. 

Thoughts, words, and deeds, the statute blames with 
But surely dreams were ne'er indicted treason. 



r dropt asleep, than he imagined himself 

transported to the birth-day levee ; and in his dream- 
ing fancy, made the following Address."} 



Guid-mornin' to your Majesty ! 

May heaven augment your blisses 
On every new birth day ye see, 

A humble pot?t wishes ! 
My hardship here at your levee, 

On sic a day as this is, 



U «ure an uncouth sight to see, 
Amaog the birth-day dresses 

Sae fine this day. 

II. 
I 6ee ye're complimented thrang, 

By moiiy a lord an' lady, 
* God save the King !' 's a cuckoo sang 

That's unco easy said aye ; 
The poets, too, a venal gang, 

Wi' rhymes weel turn'd an' ready, 
Wad gar you trow ye ne'er do wrang, 

But aye unerring steady, 

On sic a day, 

III. 
For me ! before a monarch's face, 

Ev'n there I winna flatter ; 
For neither pension, post, nor place, 

Am I your humble debtor : 
So nae reflection on your grace, 

Your kingship to bespatter ; 
There's monie waur been o' the race, 

An' aiblins ane been better 

Than you this day. 

IV. 
'Tis very true, my sov'reign king, 

My skill may well be doubted : 
But facts are chiels that winna ding 

An' downa be disputed : 
Your royal nest, beneath your wing, 

Is e'en right reft an' clouted, 
An' now the third part o' the string, 

An less, will gang about it 

Than did ae day. 



Far be't frae me that I aspire 

To blame your legislation, 
Or say, ye wisdom want, or fire, 

To rule this mighty nation ! 
But, faith ! I muckle doubt, my Sire, 

Ye've trusted ministration 
To chaps, w ha, in a barn or byre, 

Wad better fill'd their station 

Than courts yon day. 

VI. 

An' now ye've gien auld Britain peace, 

Her broken shins to plaister ; 
Your sair taxation does her fleece, 

Till she has scarce a tester j 
For me, thank God, my life's a lease 

Nae bargain wearing faster, 
Or, faith ! I fear, that wi' the geese, 

I shortly boost to pasture 

I' the craft some day. 

VII. 
I'm no mistrusting Willie Pitt, 

When taxes he enlarges, 
(An' Will's a true guid fallow's get, 

A name not envy spairges), 
That he intends to pay your debt, 

An' lessen a' your charges j 



But God sake ! let nae saving Jit 
Abridge your bonnie barges 

An' boats this day. 

VIIL 
Adieu, my Liege I may fr< edom geek 

Beneath your high protection ; 
An' may ye rax Corruption's neck, 

An' gie her for dissection ! 
But since I'm here, I'll no neglect, 

In loyal, true affection, 
To pay your Queen, with due respect, 

My fealty an' subjection 

This great birth-day. 

IX. 

Hail, Majesty I Most Excellent I 

While nobles strive to please ye. 
Will ye accept a compliment 

A simple poet gies ye ? 
Thae bonnie bairntime, Heav'n has lent, 

Still higher may they heeze ye, 
In bliss, till fate some day is sent, 

For ever to release ye 

Frae care that day. 



For you, young potentate o* Wales, 

I tell your Highness fairly, 
Down Pleasure's stream, wi' swelling sails, 

I'm tauld ye're driving rarely ; 
But some day ye may gnaw your nails, 

An' curse your folly sairly, 
That "e'er ye brak Diana's pales, 

Or rattled dice wi' Charlie, 

By night or day 

XL 

Yet aft a ragged cowte's been known 

To mak a noble aiver : 
So, ye may doucely fill a throne, 

For a' their clish-nia-claver : 
There, him* at Agincourt wha shone, 

Few better were or braver ; 
And yet wi* funny queer Sir John,\ 

He was an- unco shaver 

For monie a day. 

XII. 

For you, right rev'rend Osnabrug, 

Nane sets the lawn-sleeve sweeter, 
Altho' a ribbon at your lug 

Wad been a dress completer : 
As ye disown yon paughty dog 

1 hat bears the Keys of Peter, 
Then, swith ! an' get a wife to hug, 

Or, trouth, ye'll stain the mitre 

Some luckless day. 

XIII. 
Young royal Tarry Breeks, I learn, 
Ye've lately come athwart her ; 



108 



BURNS' WORKS. 



A glorious galley* stem an' stern, 
Weel rigg'd for Venus' barter ; 

But first hang out, that she'll discern 
Your hymeneal charter, 

Then heave aboard your grapple airn, 
An', large upo' her quarter, 

Come full that day 

XIV. 
Ye, lastly, bonnie blossoms a', 

Ye royal lasses dainty, 
Heav'n make you guid as weel as braw, 

An' gie you lads a-plenty : 
But sneer nae British boys awa', 

For kings are unco scant aye ; 
An' German gentles are but sma', 

They're better just than want aye 
On onie day. 

. XV. 
God bless you a' ! consider now, 

Ye're unco muckle dautet ; 
But, ere the course o' life be thro' 

It may be bitter sautet ; 
An' I hae seen their coygie fou, 

That yet hae tarrow't at it ; 
But or the day was done, I trow, 

The laggen they hae clautet 

Fu' clean that day. 



THE VISION. 

DUAN FIRST, t 

The sun had closed the winter day, 
The curlers quat their roaring play, 
An' hunger'd maukin ta'en her way 

To kail-yards green, 
While faithless snaws ilk step betray 

Whare she has been. 

The thresher's weary Jiingin-tree 
The lee-lang day had tired me : 
And whan the day had closed his e'e, 

Far i' the west, 
Ben i' the spence, right pensivelie, 

I gaed to rest. 

There, lanely, by the ingle-cheek, 
I sat and ey'd the spewing reek, 
That fill'd wi' hoast-provoking smeek, 

The auld clay biggin' ; 
An' heard the restless rattons squeak 

About the riggin'. 

All in this mottie, misty clime, 
I backward mus'd on wasted time, 
How I had spent my youthfu' prime, 

An' done nae-thing, 

* Alluding- to the newspaper account of a certain 
royal sailor's amour. 

t Duan, a term of Ossian's for the different divisions 
of a digressive poem. See his Catli-Loda, vol. ii. of 
M'Pherson's translation. 



But stringin' blethers up in rhyme, 
For fools to sing. 

Had I to guid advice but harkit, 
I might, by this, hae led a market, 
Or strutted in a bank and clarkit 

My cash account : 
While here, half-mad, half-fed, half-sarkit, 

Is a' th' amount. 

I started, mutt'ring, blockhead ! coof ! 
And heav'd on high my waukit loot", 
To swear by a' yon starry roof, 

Or some rash aith, 
That I, henceforth, would be rhyme-proof 

Till my last breath — 

When click ! the string the sneck did draw ; 
An' jee ! the door gaed to the wa' ; 
An' by my ingle-lowe I saw, 

Now bleezin' bright, 
A tight outlandish Hizzie, braw, 

Come full in sight. 

Ye need na doubt, I held my whisht ! 
The infant aith half-form'd was crush't; 
I glowr'd as eerie's I'd been dusht 

In some wild glen ; 
When sweet like modest worth, she blush't, 
And stepped ben. 

Green, slender, leaf clad holly-boughs, 
Were twisted gracefu' round her brows ; 
I took her for some Scottish Muse, 

By that same token ; 
An' come to stop those reckless vows, 

Would soon been broken. 

A ' hair-brain'd, sentimental trace' 
Was strongly marked in her face ; 
A wildly- witty, rustic grace 

Shone full upon her; 
Her eye, ev'n turn'd on empty space, 

Beam'd keen with honour. 

Down fiow'd her robe, a tartan sheen, 
Till half a leg was scrimply seen ; 
And such a leg ! my bonnie Jean 

Could only pear it ; 
Sae straught, sae taper, tight, and clean, 

Nane else cam near it. 

Her mantle large, of greenish hue, 
My gazing wonder chiefly drew ; 
Deep lights and shades, bold mingling, threw 

A lustre grand ; 
And seem'd to my astonish'd view, 

A well known land. 

Here, rivers in the sea were lost : 
There, mountains to the skies were tost: 
Here, tumbling billows mark'd the coast, 

With surging foam j 
There, distant shone Art's lofty boast, 

The lordly dome. 



109 



Here Boon pour'd down his far-fetch'd floods; 
There, well-fed Irwine stately thuds : 
Auld hermit Ayr staw thro' his woods, 

On to the shore ; 
And many a lesser torrent scuds, 

With seeming roar. 

Low, in a sandy valley spread, 
An ancient borouyh rear'd her head ; 
Still, as in Scottish story read, 

She boasts a race, 
To every nobler virtue bred, 

And polish'd grace. 

By stately tow'r or palace fair, 
Or ruins pendent in the air, 
Bold stems of heroes, here and there, 

I could discern ; 
Some seem'd to muse, some seem'd to dare, 

With feature stern. 

Aly heart did glowing transport feel, 
To see a race * heroic wheel, 
And brandish round the deep-dy'd steel 

In sturdy blows ; 
While back-recoiling seem'd to reel 

Their suthron foes. 

His Country's Saviour,} mark him well ! 
Bold Rickardtoii's f heroic swell ; 
The chief on Sark S who glorious fell, 

In high command ; 
And he whom ruthless fates expel 

His native land. 

There, where a sceptred Pictish shade 
Stalk'd round his ashes lowly laid, 
I mark'd a martial race portray'd 

In colours strong; 
Bold, soldier-featur'd, undismay'd 

They strode along. 

Thro' many a wild, romantic grove, ^ 
Near many a hermit-fancy'd cove, 
(Fit haunts for friendship or for love 

In musing mood,) 
An aged Judge, I saw him rove, 

Dispensing good. 

With deep-struck reverential awe,** 
The learned sire and son I saw, 
To Nature's God and Nature's law 

They gave their lore, 



* 


l'he Wallaces. f William Wallace. 


I Ada 


n Wallace, of Richardton, cousin to the im. 




rc-cTMT <>I Scottish independence. 




"•'•, 1 inl <.f Cranio, who was second in com- 




i-r Mi. i_>las Earl ul Ormond, at the famous 




the hanks of Sark, fought anno 1448. That 


glori-ms 


pictory was principally owing to the judicious 




and intrepid valour of the gallant Laird of 




vim di.'d of his u annuls alter the action. 


|, Coil 


i-:, King of the Picts, from whom the district 




s -.aid tu take its name, lies huried, as tradition 




r the family-seat of the Montgoraeries of Coils. 


fieiii, wh 


ere his burial-place is still shown. 


1 Bars 


<iminiiig, the seat of the late Lord Justice-Clerk. 


Profe^su 


rine, the seat of the lute Doctor, and present 



This, all its source and end to draw, 
That to adore. 

Brydoris brave ward * I well could spy. 
Beneath old Scotia's smiling eye ; 
Who call'd on Fame, low standing by, 

To hand him on, 
Where many a patriot-name on high, 

And hero shone. 



DUAN SECOND. 

With musing-deep, astonish'd stare, 
I view'd the heav'nly seeming^/air ; 
A whisp'ring throb did witness bear, 

Of kindred sweet, 
When with an elder sister's air 

She did me greet. 

* All hail ! my own inspired bard ! 
In me thy native muse regard ! 

Nor longer mourn thy fate is hard, 
Thus poorly low, 

I come to give thee such reward 
As we bestow. 

' Know, the great yenius of this land 
Has many a light, aerial band, 
Who, all beneath his high command, 

Harmoniously, 
As arts or arms they understand, 

Their labours ply. 

' They Scotia's race among them sharej 
Some fire the soldier on to dare ; 
Some rouse the patriot up to bare 

Corruption's heart : 
Some teach the bard, a darling care, 
The tuneful art. 

' 'Mong swelling floods of reeking gore, 
They, ardent, kindling spirits pour ; 
Or, 'mid the venal senate's roar, 

They, sightless, stand, 
To mend the honest patriot-lore, 

And grace the hand. 

' And when the bard, or hoary sage, 
Charm or instruct the future age, 
They bind the wild poetic rage 

In energy, 
Or point the inconclusive page 

Full on the eye, 

* Hence Fidlarton, the brave and young; 
Hence Dempster's zeal-inspired tongue ; 
Hence sweet harmonious Beattie sung 

His " Minstrel lays ;" 
Or tore, with noble ardour stung, 

The sceptic's bays. 

' To lower orders are assign'd 
The humbler ranks of human -kind, 



" Colonel Fullartou, 



no 



BURNS' WORKS. 



The rustic Bard, the lab'ring Hind, 

The Artisan ; 
All choose, as various they're inclin'd, 

The various man. 

• When yellow waves the heavy grain, 
The threat'ning storm some strongly rein ; 
Some teach to meliorate the plain, 

With tillage skill ; 

And some instruct the shepherd-train, 

Blithe o'er the hill. 

' Some hint the lover's harmless wile ; 
Some grace the maiden's artless smile; 
Some soothe the lab'rer's weary toil, 

For humble gains, 
And make his cottage scenes beguile 

His cares and pains. 

• Some bounded to a district-space, 
Explore at large man's infant race, 
To mark the embryotic trace 

Of rustic Bard; 
And careful note each op'ning grace, 
A guide and guard. 

' Of these am I — Caila my name j 
And this district as mine I claim, 
Where once the Campbdls, chiefs of fame, 

Held ruling pow'r, 
I mark'd thy embryo tuneful flame, 

Thy natal hour. 

• With future hope, I oft would gaze, 
Fond on thy little early ways, 

Thy rudely caroll'd, chiming phrase, 
In uncouth rhymes, 

Fired at the simple, artless lays 

Of other times. 

' I saw thee seek the sounding shore, 
Delighted with the dashing roar ; 
Or when the north his fleecy store 

Drove thro' the sky, 
/ saw grim Nature's visage hoar 

Struck thy young eye. 

' Or when the deep-green mantled earth 
Warm cherish'd ev'ry flow'ret's birth, 
And joy and music pouring forth 
In ev'ry grove, 
I saw thee eye the general mirth 

With boundless love. 

' When ripen'd fields, and azure skies, 
Call'd forth the reaper's rustling noise, 
I saw thee leave their ev'iiing joys, 

And lonely stalk, 
To vent thy bosom's swelling rise 

In pensive walk. 

' When youthful love, warm-biushing, strong, 
Keen- shivering shot thy nerves along, 
Those accents, grateful to thy tongue, 
Th' adored Name, 



I taught thee how to pour in song, 

To soothe thy flame. 

' I saw thy pulse's maddening play, 
Wild send thee Pleasure's devious way, 
Misled by Fancy's meteor ray, 

By Passion driven ; 
But yet the light that led astray 

Was light from heaven 

' I taught thy manners-painting strains, 
The loves, the ways of simple swains, 
Till now, o'er all my wide domains 

Thy fame extends ; 
And some, the pride of Coila's plains, 

Become thy friends. 

( Thou canst not learn, nor can I show, 
To paint with Thomson's landscape glow ; 
Or wake the bosom-melting throe, 

With Shenstone's art ; 
Or pour, with Gray, the moving flow 

Warm on the heart. 

' Yet all beneath th* unrivall'd rose, 
The lowly daisy sweetly blows : 
Tho* large the forest's monarch throws 

His army shade, 
Yet green the juicy hawthorn grows, 
Adown the glade. 

' Then never murmur nor repine ; 
Strive in thy humble sphere to shine ; 
And trust me, not Potosi's mine, 

Nor kings' regard, 
Can give a bliss o'ermatching thine, 

A rustic Bard. 

' To give my counsels all in one, 
Thy tuneful flame still careful fan ; 
Preserve the dignity of Man, 

With soul erect ; 
And trust the Universal Plan 

Will all protect. 

' And wear thou this,' — she solemn said, 
And bound the Holly round my head ; 
The polish'd leaves, and berries red, 

Did rustling play ; 
And, like a passing thought, she fled 

In light away. 



ADDRESS TO THE UNCO GUIT 



RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS. 



My son, these maxims make a rule, 
And lump tliem aye thegither ; 

The Rigid Righteous is a fool, 
The Rigid Wine anither : 



The cleanest corn that e'er was dight 
May hae some pyles o' call in ; 

Sae ne'er a fe Mow- creature slight 
For random fits o' daftin. — 

Solomon. — Ecclea. ch. Tii. Ter. ] 

I. 

O ye wha are sae guid yoursel, 

Sae pious and sae holy, 
Ye've nought to do but mark and tell 

Your neebour's fauts and folly ! 
Whase life is like a weel gaun mill, 

Supply'd \vi' store o' water, 
The heapet happer's ebbing still, 

And still the clap plays clatter. 

II. 
Hear me, ye venerable core, 

As counsel for poor mortals, 
That frequent pass douce Wisdom's door 

For glaikit Folly's portals ; 
J, for their thoughtless, careless sakes, 

Would here propone defences, 
Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes, 

Their failings and mischances. 

III. 
Ye see your state \vi' theirs compared, 

And shudder at the niffer, 
But cast a moment's fair regard, 

What maks the mighty differ ? 
Discount what scant occasion gave 

That purity ye pride in, 
And (what's aft mair than a* the lave) 

Your better art o' hiding. 

IV. 
Think, when your castigated pulse 

Gies now and then a wallop, 
What ragings must his veins convulse, 

That still eternal gallop: 
Wi' wind and tide fair i' your tail, 

Right on ye scud your sea-way j 
But in the teeth o' baith to sail, 

It maks an unco lee-way. 



See social life and glee sit down, 

All joyous and unthinking, 
Till, quite transmogrified, they're grown 

Debauchery and drinking : 
O would they stay to calculate 

Th' eternal consequences ; 
Or your more dreaded hell to state, 

Damnation of expenses ! 

VI. 

Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames, 

Ty'd up in godly laces, 
Before ye gie poor frailty names, 

Suppose a change o' cases ; 
A dear lov'd lad, convenience snug, 

A treacherous inclination — 
But let me whisper i' your lug, 

Ye're aiblins nae temptation. 



VII. 

Then gently scan your brother man, 

Still gentler sister woman j 
Tho' they may gang a kennin wrang, 

To step aside is human ; 
One point must still be greatly dark, 

The moving why they do it ; 
And just as lamely can ye mark, 

How far perhaps they rue it. 

VIII. 

Who made the heart, 'tis He alone 

Decidedly can try us, 
He knows each chord — its various tone, 

Each spring — its various bias : 
Then at the balance let's be mute, 

We never can adjust it ; 
What's done we partly may compute, 

But know not what's resisted. 



TAM SAMSON'S* ELEGY. 

An honest man's the noblest work of God. — Pops 

Has auld K seen the Deil ! 

Or great M' — -f thrawn his heel ? 

Or R \ again grown weel 

To preach an' read_2 
' Na, waur than a' !' cries ilka chiel, 

' Tarn Samsons dead !' 

K- lang may grunt an' grane, 

An' sigh, an' sab, an' greet her lane, 

An' deed her bairns, man, wife, and wean, 

In mourning weed ; 
To death, she's dearly paid the kane, 

Tam Samson's dead ! 

The brethren of the mystic level, 
May hing their head in woefu' bevel, 
While by their nose the tears will revel, 

Like ony bead ! 
Death's gien the lodge an unco devel, 

Tam Samson's dead 

When winter muffles up his cloak, 
And binds the mire like a rock; 
When to the lochs the curlers flock, 

Wi' gleesome speed ; 
Wha will they station at the cock ? 

Tam Samson's dead ! 

He was the king o' a' the core, 
To guard, or draw, or wick a bore, 



• When this worthy old sportsman went out last 
muirfow) season, he supposed it wa3 to be, in Ossian's 
phrase, ' the last of his fields ." and expressed an arden* 
wish to die and be buried in the inuirs. On this hint 
the author composed his eleg-y and epitaph. 

+ A certain preacher, a irreat favourite with the mil. 
lion. Vide the Ordination, Stanza II. 

t Another preacher.au equal favourite with the few, 
who was at that time uling. For him see alio the Or- 
dination, Stauza '• X. 



112 

Or up the rink, like Jehu roar, 

In time o' need ; 

But now he lags on death's hog-score, 

Tam Samson's dead ! 

Now safe the stately sawmont sail, 
And trouts bedropp'd wi' crimson hail, 
And eels weel kenn'd for souple tail, 

And geds for greed, 

Since dark in death's fish-creel we wail, 

Tain Samson dead ! 

Rejoice, ye birring paitricks a' ; 
Ye cootie moorcocks, crousely craw ; 
Ye maukins, cock your fud fu' braw, 
Withouten dread ; 
Your mortal fae is now awa', 

Tam Samson's dead ! 

That waefu' morn be ever mourn'd, 
Saw him in shootin' graith adorn'd, 
While pointers round impatient burn'd 

Frae couples freed ! 
But, och ! he gaed and ne'er return'd ! 

Tam Samson's dead ! 

In vain auld age his body batters ; 
In vain the gout his ancles fetters ; 
in vain the burns came down like waters 

An acre braid! 
Now ev'ry auld wife greetin', clatters, 

Tam Samson's dead ! 

Owre mony a weary hag he limpit, 
An' aye the tither shot he thumpit, 
Till coward death behind him jumpit 
Wi deadly feide ; 
Now he proclaims wi' tout o' trumpet, 

Tam Samson's dead ! 

When at his heart he felt the dagger. 
He reel'd his wonted bottle- swagger, 
But yet he drew the mortal trigger 

Wi' weel-aim'd heed ; 
« L — d, five !' he cry'd, an' owre did stagger ; 
Tam Samson's dead ! 

Ilk hoary hunter mourn'd a brither ; 
Hk sportsman youth bemoan'd a father; 
Yon auld grey stane, amang the heather, 

Marks out his head, 
Whare Burns has wrote, in rhyming blether, 

Tam Samson's dead J 

There low he lies, in lasting rest: 
Perhaps upon his mould'ring breast 
Some spitefu' muirfowl bigs her nest, 

To hatch an' breed ; 
Alas ! nae mair he'll them molest ! 



When August winds the heather wave, 
And sportsmen wander by yon grave, 
Three volleys let his mem'ry crave 

O potither an' lead. 



BURNS* WORKS. 



Till Echo answer frae her cave, 

Tam Samson's dead 

Heav'n rest his saul, whare'er he be ! 
Is th' wish o' mony mae than me : 
He had twa fauts, or may be three, 

Yet what remead ? 
Ae social, honest man, want we : 

Tam Samson's dead ' 



THE EPITAPH. 

Tam Samson's weel- worn clay here lies, 
Ye canting zealots, spare him ! 

If honest worth in heaven rise, 
Ye'll mend or ye won near him. 



PER CONTRA. 

Go, Fame, and canter like a filly 
Thro' a' the streets an' neuks o' Killie,* 
Tell every social, honest biilie, 

To cease his grievin', 
For yet unskaith'd by death's gleg gullie, 

Turn Samson's livirf. 



HALLOWEEN.f 

[The following poem will, by many readers, be well 
enough understood ; but for the sake of those who 
are unacquainted with the manners and traditions of 
the country where the scene is cast, notes are added, 
to give some account of the principal charms and 
spells of that night, eo big with prophecy to the pea- 
santry in l! i' West -.if Scotlai d. The passion of pry. 
ing into futurity makes a sinking part of the history 
of human nature in its rude state, in all ages and 
nations.; and it may be some entertainment to & 
philosophic mind, it any such should honour the 
author with a perusal, to see the remains of it among 
the more unenlightened in our own.] 



Yes! let the rich deride, the poor disdain, 
The simple pleasures of the lowly train ; 
To me more dear, congenial to niy heart. 
One native charm, than all the gloss of art. 



I. 
Upon that night, when fairies light, 

On Cassilis Doivnans \ dance, 
Or owre the lays, in splendid blaze, 

On sprightly eortrsers prance ; 
Or for Cohan the route is ta'en, 

Beneath the moon's pale beams ! 



* Killie is a phrase the country folks sometimes use 
for Kilmarnock. 

t Is thought to be a night when witches, devils, and 
other mischief-making beings, are all abroad on their 
baneful midnight errands ; particularly those aerial 
people, the Fairies, are said on that night to hold j, 
grand anniversary. 

J Certain little, romantic, rocky, green hills, in the 
neighbourhood of the ancient seat of the Ear's of Cassilis, 



113 



Tfcere up the cove* to stray an' rove 
Amang the rocks and streams, 

To sport that night. 

II. 
Amang the bonnie winding banks 

Where Doon rins, wimplin', clear, 
Where BuucEf ance rul'd the martial ranks, 

An* shook his Carrick spear, 
Some merry, friendly, countra folks, 

Together did convene, 
To bum their nits, an' pou their stocks, 

An' haud their Halloween 

Fu' blithe that night. 

III. 

The lasses feat, an' cleanly neat, 

Mair braw than when their fine ; 
Their faces blithe, fu' sweetly kythe, 

Hearts leal, an' warm, an' kin' : 
The lads sae trig, wi' wooer-babs, 

Weel knotted on their garten, 
Some unco blate, an' some wi' gabs, 

Gar lasses' hearts gang startin' 

Whyles fast at night. 

IV. 

Then first and foremost, thro' the kail, 

Their stocks \ maun a' be sought ance ; 
They steek their een, an' graip an' wale, 

For muckle anes and straught anes. 
Poor hav'rel Will fell aff the drift, 

An' wander'd thro' the bow-kail, 
An' pou't for want o' better shift, 

A runt was like a sow-tail, 

Sae bow't that night. 



Then, straught or crooked, yird or nane, 

They roar an' cry a' throu'ther ; 
The vera wee things, todlin', rin 

Wi' stocks out-owre their shouther; 
An' gif the custoc's sweet or sour, 

Wi' joctelegs they taste them ; 
Syne coziely, aboon the door, 

Wi' cannie care, they've plac'd them 
To lie that night. 



, * A noted cavern near Culean-house, called The Cove 
of Colean ; which, as Cassilis Downans, is famed in 
country story for being a favourite haunt for fairies. 

f The famous family of that name, the ancestors of 
Robert, the great deliverer of his country, were Earls 
of Carrick. 

J The first ceremony of Halloween, is pulling each a 
ttock, or plant of kail. They must go out, hand in hand, 
with eyes shut, and pull the first they meet with ! Its 
being big or little, straight, or crooked, is prophetic of 
the size and shape of the grand object of all their spells 
— the husband or wife. It any yinl, or earth stick to 
the root, that is tocher, or fortune ; and the taste of the 
custoc, that is the heart of the stem, is indicative of the 
natural temper and disposition. — Lastly, the stems, or 
to give them their ordinary appellation, the runts are 
placed somewhere above the head of the door; and the 
Christian names of the people whom chance brings 
o the house, are, according to the priority of Placing 



then 



s, the 






VI. 
The lasses staw free' mang them a' 

To pou their stalks o' corn ;* 
But Rab slips out, and jinks about, 

Behint the muckle thorn ; 
He grippet Nelly hard an' fast; 

Loud skirl'd a' the lasses ; 
But her tap-pickle maist was lost, 

When kiuttliu' in the fause-housef 
Wi' him that night. 

VII. 
The auld guidwife's weel-hoordet nits { 

Are round an' round divided, 
And monie lads and lasses' fates, 

Are there that night decided : 
Some kindle, couthy side by side, 

An' burn thegither trimly; 
Some start awa' wi' saucy pride, 

An' jump out-owre the chimlie 

Fu' high that night. 

VIII. 
Jean slips in twa wi' tentie e'e; 

Wha 'twas, she wadna tell ; 
But this is Jock, an' this is me, 

She says in to hersel' : 
He bleez'd owre her, and she owre him, 

As they wad never mair part; 
Till fuff ! he started up the liim, 

An' Jean had e'en a sair heart 

To see't that night. 

IX. 

Poor Willie, wi' his bow-kail runt, 

Was brunt wi' primsie Mallie ; 
An' Mallie, nae doubt, took the drunt, 

To be compar'd to Willie ; 
Mall's nit lap out wi' pridefu' fling, 

An' her ain fit it brunt it ; 
While Willie lap, and swoor by jing, 

'Twas just the way he wanted 

To be that night. 

X. 

Nell had the fause-house in her min', 
She pits hersel' an' Rob in ; 

In loving bleeze they sweetly join, 
Till white in ase they're sobbin' : 

Nell's heart was dancin' at the view, 
She whisper'd Rob to look for't : 



* They go to the barn-yard, and pull each, at three 

several times, a stalk of oats. If the third stalk wants 
the tnp-pirkli', that is, the grain at the tjp of the stalk, 
the party in question will come to the marriage-bed any 
thing but a maid. 

t When the corn is in a doubtful state, by being too 
green, or wet, the stack- builder, by means of old timber, 
&c. makes a large apartment in bis stack, '.vith an open- 
ing in the side which is fairest exposed to the wind; 
this he calls a f.mie-house. 

X Burning the nut-, is a favourite charm. Theyname 
the lad and lass to each particular nut, as they lay them 
in the fire, and accordingly as they burn quietly to- 
gether, or start from beside une another, the course and 
issu> of the courtship will be. 



BUitiNS' WORKS. 



Rob, stowlins prie'd her bormie mou, 
Fu' cozie in the neuk for't, 

Unseen that night. 

XI. 
But Merran sat behint their backs, 

Her thoughts on Andrew Bell ; 
She lea'es them gashin' at their cracks, 

And slips out by hersel' : 
She thro' the yard the nearest taks, 

An' to the kiln she goes then, 
An' darklins graipit for the bauks, 

And in the blue clue* throws then, 

Right fear't that night. 

XII. 

Arr aye she win't, an' ay she swat, 

I wat she made nae jaukin ; 
Till something held within the pat, 

Guid L — d ! but she was quakin' ! 
But whether 'twas the Deil himsel, 

Or whether 'twas a bauk-en, 
Or whether it was Andrew Bell, 

She did na wait on talkin' 

To spier that night. 

XIII. 
Wee Jenny to her Graunie says, 

" Will ye go wi' me graunie? 
I'll eat the applef at the glass, 

I gat frae uncle Johnie :" 
She fuff't her pipe wi' sic a lunt, 

In wrath she was sae vap'rin', 
She notic't na, an aizle brunt 

Her braw new worset apron 

Out thro 1 that night. 

XIV. 
" Ye little skelpie-limmer's face ! 

How daur ye try sic sportin', 
As seek the foul Thief ony place, 

For him to spae your fortune : 
Nae doubt but ye may get a sight I 

Great cause ye hae to fear it ; 
For monie a ane has gotten a fright, 

An' liv'd an' di'd deleeret 

On sic a night. 

XV. 

" Ae hairst afore the Sherra-moor, 

I mind 't as weel's yestreen, 
I was a gilpey then, I'm sure 

I was na past fyfteen : 



The simmer had been cauld an' wat, 

An' stuff was unco green : 
An' aye a rantin kirn we gat, 

An just on Halloween 

It fell that night 

XVI. 
" Our stibble-rig was Rab M'Graen, 

A clever, sturdy fallow ; 
He's sin gat Eppie Sim wi' wean, 

That liv'd in Achmacalla : 
He gat hemp-seed,* I mind it weel, 

An' he made unco light o't ; 
But mony a day was by himsrl', 

He was sae sairly frighted 

That vera night. " 

XVII. 

Than up gat fechtin' Jamie Fleck, 

An' he swoor by his conscience, 
That he could saw hemp-seed a peck; 

For it was a' but nonsense ! 
The auld guid-man raught down the peck, 

An' out a handfu' gied him ; 
Syne bad him slip frae 'mang the folk, 

Sometime when nae ane see'd him, 
An' try't that night. 

XVIII. 
He marches thro' amang the stacks. 

Tho' he was something sturtin, 
The graip he for a harrow taks, 

An' haurls at his curpin : 
An' ev'ry now an' then he says, 

" Hemp- seed I saw thee, 
An' her that is to be my lass, 

Come after me, and draw thee, 

As fast this night." 

XIX. 
He whistl'd up Lord Lennox' march, 

To keep his courage cheery ; 
Altho' his hair began to arch, 

He was sae fley'd an' eerie : 
Till presently he bears a squeak, 

An' then a grane an' gruntle ; 
He by his shoulder gae a keek, 

An' tumbl'd wi' a wintle 

Out-owre that night. 

XX. 

He roar'd a horrid murder shout, 

In dreadfu' desperation ! 
An' young an' auld cam rinnin' out, 

To hear the sad narration : 



* Whoever would, with success, try this spell, must 
strictly observe these directions : Steal out, all alone, to 
the kiln, and, darkling, throw into thepo^aclue of blue 
yarn ; wind it in a new clue off the old one : and, to. 
wards the latter end, something will hold the thread, 
demand wha hands? i. e. who holds ? an answer will be 
returned from the kiln-pot, by naming the Christian and 
sirname of your future spouse. 

•f- Take a candle, and go alone to a looking-glass ; eat 
an apple before it, and some traditions say, you should 
comb your hair all the time ; the face of your conjugal 
companion, to be, will be seen iu the glass, as if peepir g 
over your shoulder 



* Steal out unperceived, and sow a handful of hemp, 
seed ; harrowing it with any thing you can conveniently 
draw after you. Repeat now and then, ' Hemp-seed I 
saw thee ; hemp-seed I Baw thee ; and him (or her) that 
is to be ray true-love, come after me and pou thee.' 
Look over your left shoulder, and you will see the ap- 
pearance of the person invoked, in the attitude of pulling 
hemp. Some traditions say, ' come after me, and sliaw 
thee,' that is, show thyself : in which case it simply ap- 
pears. Others omit the harrowing, and say 'come after 
me and harrow thee. * 



He swoor 'twas hilchin Jean M'Craw, 
Or crouchie Merrah Humphie, 

Till stop ! she trotted thro' them a'-, 
An* wha was it but Grumphie 

Asteer that night ! 

XXI. 

Meg fain wad to the barn hae gane, 

To win three wechts o' naething ;• 
But for to meet the deil her lane, 

She pat but little faith in; 
She gies the herd a pickle nits, 

An' twa red cheekit apples, 
To watch, while for the barn she sets, 

In hopes to see Tarn Kipples 

That vera night. 

XXII. 

She turns the key wi' cannie thraw, 

An' owre the threshold ventures ; 
But first on Sawnie gies a ca,' 

Syne bauldly in she enters ; 
A ratton rattled up the wa' 

An' she cry'd, L — d preserve her ! 
An' ran thro' midden-hole an' a', 

An' pray'd wi' zeal and fervour, 

Fu' fast that night. 

XXIII. 

They hoy't out Will, wi' sair advice ; 

Then hecht him some fine braw arie ; 
It chanc'd the stack he faddom'd thrice,\ 

Was timmer-prapt for tbrawin' ; 
He taks a swirlie auld moss-oak, 

For some black, grousome carlin ; 
An' loot a wince, an' drew a stroke, 

Till skin in blypes cam haurlin' 

Aff's nieves that night. 

XXIV. 
A wanton widow Leezie was, 

As canty as a kittlen ; 
But Och ! that night, amang the shaws, 

She got a fearfu' settlin' ! 
She thro' the whins, an' by the cairn, 

An' owre the hill gaed scrievin', 
Whare thrae lairds lands' met at a burn,\ 

To dip her left sark- sleeve in, 

Was bent that night. 



* This charm must likewise be performed unperceiv- 
ed» and alone. You go to the barn, and open both 
doors, taking- tliem off the hinges, if possible ; for there 
is danger, that, the Inlaw about to appear, may shut the 
doors, and do you some mischief. Then take that in. 
Btrument used in winnowing the corn, which, in our 
country dialect, we call a icerht, and go through all the 
attitudes of letting down corn against the wind. Re- 
peat it three times; and the third time an apparition 



VIS. 115 

XXV. 

Whyles owre a linn the burnie plays, 

As thro' the glen it wimpl't ; 
Whyles round a rocky scar it strays ; 

Whyles in a wiel it dimpl't ; 
Whyles glitter'd to the nightly rays, 

Wi' bickering, dancing dazzle; 
Whyles cookit underneath the braes, 

Below the spreading hazel, 

Unseen that night. 

XXVL 

Amang the brackens, on the brae, 

Between her an' the moon, 
The deil, or else an outler quey, 

Gat up an' gae a croon ; 
Poor Leezie's heart maist lap the hool; 

Ne'er lavrock height she jumper,, 
But mist a fit, an' in the pool 

Out owre the lugs she plumpit, 

Wi' a plunge that night. 

XXVII. 
In order, on the clean hearth-stane, 

The luggies three* are ranged, 
And ev'ry time great care is ta'en, 

To see them duly changed ; 
Auld uncle John, wha wedlock's joya 

Sin' Mar's-year did desire, 
Because he gat the toom-dish thrice, 

He heav'd them on the fire, 

In wrath that night. 

XXVIII. 
Wi' merry sangs, an' friendly cracks, 

I wat they did na weary ; 
An' unco tales, and funnie jokes, 

Their sports were cheap an' cheery : 
Till butter'd so'n.',f wi' fragrant lunt, 

Set a' their gabs a-steerin' ; 
Syne, wi' a social glass o' strung 

They parted aff careerin' 

Fu' blithe that nighfc 






'•Pi" 



igh the barn, 

ler, having both the figure in question, 
ranee or retinue, marking the employ- 



t Take an opportunity of going, unnoticed to a Bear, 
stack, ami fathom it three times round. The last fathom 
of the last time you will catch in your arras the appear- 
ance of your future conjugal yoke-fellow. 

You" go out, one or more, for this is a social spell, to 
a south running spring or rivulet, where ' three lairds' 
lands meet,' and dip your left shirt sleeve. Goto bed in 
sight of a fixe, and hang your wet sleeve before it to 



dry. Lie awake; and some time near midnight, sn 
apparition having the exact figure of the granrl object 
in question will come and turn the sleeve as if to dry 
tic other side of it. 

* Take three dishes, put clean water in one, fou 
water in another, leave the third empty : blindfold t 
person, and lead him to the hearth where the 
dishes are ranged : he (or she) dips the left hand ; if bj 
chance in the clean water, the future husband or wife 
will come to the bar of matrimony a maid ; if in the 
foul, a widow ; if in the empty dish, it foretells with 
equal certainty, no marriage at all. It is repeated 
three times, and every time the arrangement of the 
dishes is altered. 

f Sowens, with butter instead of milk to them, is al 
ways the halloween Supper. 



116 



BURNS' WORKS. 



THE 

AULD FARMER'S 

NEW-YEAR MORNING SALUTATION TO HIS 

AULD MARE MAGGIE, 



A Guid New-year I wish thee, Maggie ! 
Hae, there's a ripp to thy auld baggie : 
Tho' thou's howe-backit, now an' knaggie, 

I've seen the day, 
Thou could hae gaen like onie staggie 

Out-owre the lay. 

Tho' now thou's dowie, stiff, and crazy, 
An' thy auld hide's as white's a daisy, 
I've seen thee dappl't, sleek, an glaizie, 

A bonnie gray : 
He should been tight that daur't to raize thee, 

Ance in a day. 

Thou ance was i' the foremost rank, 
A filly buirdly, steeve, an' swank, 
An' set weel down a shapely shank 

As e'er tred yird ; 
An' could hae flown out-owre a stank, 

Like onie bird. 

It's now some nine-an'-twenty year, 
Sin' thou was my guid father's meere 
He gied me thee, o' tocher clear, 

An' fifty mark ; 
Tho' it was sma', 'twas weel-won gear, 
An' thou was stark. 

When first I gaed to woo my Jenny, 
Ye then was trottin' wi' your minnie : 
Tho' ye was triekie, slee, an' funnie, 

Ye ne'er was donsie, 
But hamely, tawie, quiet, an' cannie, 

An' unco sonsie. 

That day, ye pranc'd wi' muckle pride, 
When ye bure hame my bonnie bride .• 
An' sweet an' gracefu' she did ride, 

Wi' maiden air I 
Kyle Stewart I could bragged wide, 

For sic a pair. 

Tho' now ye dow but hoyte an' hobble, 
An' wintle like a samount-coble, 
That day ye was a jinker noble, 

For heels an' win' I 
An' ran them till they a' did wauble, 

Far, far behin'. 

When thou an' I were young and skeigh, 
An' stable-meals at fairs were dreigh, 
How thou wad prance, an' snore, an' skreigb, 

An' tak the road 1 
Town's bodies ran, an' stood abeigh, 

An' ca't thee mad. j 



When thou was corn't, an' I was mellow, 
We took the road aye like a swallow : 
At Brooses thou had ne'er a fellow, 

For pith an' speed ; 

But ev'ry tail thou pay't them hollow, 

Whare'er thou gaed. 

The sma', droop-rumpl't, hunter cattle, 
Might aiblins waur't thee for a brattle ; 
But sax Scotch miles thou try't their mettle, 

An' gar't them whaizle : 
Nae whip nor spur, but just a wattle 

O' saugh or hazel. 

Thou was a noble jittie-lari , 
As e'er in tug or tow was drawn •, 
Aft thee an' I, in aught hours gaun, 

On guid March weather, 
Hae turn'd sax rood beside our han', 

For days thegither. 

Thou never braindg't an' fetch't, an' fliskit, 
But thy auld tail thou wad hae whiskit, 
An' spread abreed thy weel-fill'd brisket, 

Wi' pith an' pow'r, 
Till spritty knowes wad rair't an' risket, 
An' slypet owre. 

When frosts lay lang, an' snaws were deep, ** 

An' threaten'd labour back to keep, 1 

I gied my cog a wee bit heap 

Aboon the timmer : 
I ken'd my Maggie wadna sleep 

For that, or simmer. 

In cart or car thou never reestit ; 
The steyest brae thou wad hae fac't it ; 
Thou never lap, and sten't, and breastit, 

Then stood to blaw \ 
But just thy step a wee thing hastit, 

Thou snoov't awa. 

My pleugh is now thy bairn-time a' : 
Four gallant brutes as e'er did draw ; 
Forbye sax mae, I've sell't awa, 

That thou hast nurst t 
They drew me thretteen pund an' tsva, 

The vera warst. 

Monie a sair daurk we twa hae wrought, 
An' wi' the weary waiT fought ! 
An' monie an anxious day, I thought 

We wad be beat ! 
Yet here to crazy age we're brought, 

Wi' something yet. 

And think na, my auld, trusty servan', 
That now perhaps thou's less deservin', 
An' thy auld days may end in starvin', 

For my last/ow, 
A heapit stimpart, I'll reserve ane 

Laid by for you. 

We've worn to crazy years thegither j 
We'll toyte about wi' ane anither ; 



117 



Wi' tentie care I'll flit thy tether, 

To some hain'd rig, 

Whare ye may nobly rax your leather, 
\VT sma' fatigue. 



TO A MOUSE, 

ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST WITH THE 
PLOUGH, NOVEMBER, 1785. 

Wee, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie, 
O, what a panic's in thy breastie ! 
Thou need na' start awa sae hasty, 

Wi' bickering brattle ! 
I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, 

Wi' murd'ring pattle! 

I'm truly sorry man's dominion 
Has broken Nature's social union, 
An' justifies that ill opinion 

Which makes thee startle 
At me, thy poor earth-born companion 
An' fellow-mortal ! 

„ doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve ; 
What then ? poor beastie, thou maun live ! 
A daimen icher in a thrave 

'S a sma' request: 
TO get a blessin' wi' the lave, 

And never miss't ! 

Thy wee bit kousie, too, in ruin ! 

Its silly wa's the win's are strewin' ! 

An' naething, now to big a new ane, 

O' foggage green ! 

An' bleak December's winds ensuin', 

Baith snell and keen ! 

Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste, 
An' weary winter comin' fast, 
An' cozie here, beneath the blast, 

Thou thought to dwell, 
Till crash ! the cruel coulter past 

Out thro' thy cell, 

That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble, 
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble ! 
Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble, 

But house or hald, 
To thole the winter's sleety dribble, 

An' cranreuch cauld ! 

But Mousie, thou art no thy lane, 
In proving foresight may be vain : 
The best laid schemes o' mice an' men, 

Gang aft agley, 
An' lea'e us nought but grief and pain, 

For promis'd joy. 



Still thou art blest, compar'd 
The present only toucheth thee . 
Hut Och ! I backward cast my e'e 



' met 



On prospects dear • 
An' forward, though 1 canna see, 
I guess &n'fexr 



A WINTER NIGHT. 



Poor naked wretches, whereso'er you are, 
That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm! 
How shall your houseless heads, and unfed aider 
Your loop'd and windnw'd raggedness, defend yc 
From seasons such as these 1—Shakipeare. 



When biting Boreas, fell and doure, 
Sharp shivers through the leafless bow*r ; 
When Phoebus gi'es a short- liv'd glower 

Far south the lift, 
Dim-dark'ning through the flaky show'r 

Or whirling drift : 

Ae night the storm the steeples rocked, 
Poor labour sweet in sleep was locked, 
While burns wi' snawy wreaths up chocked, 

Wild-eddying swirl, 
Or through the mining outlet bocked, 

Down headlong hurl, 

List'ning, the doors an' vvinnocks rattle, 
I thought me on the ourie cattle, 
Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle 

O' winter war, 
And through the drift, deep-lairing sprattle 

Beneath a scar. 

Ilk happing bird, wee, helpless thing, 
That in the merry month o' spring, 
Delighted me to hear thee sing, 

What comes o' thee ? 
Whare wilt thou cow'r thy chittering wing, 

An' close thy e'e ? 

Ev^n you on murd'ring errands toil'd, 
Lone from your savage homes exil'd, 
The blood-stain'd roost, and sheep-cote spoil'd, 

My heart forgets, 
While pitiless the tempest wild 

Sore on you beats. 

Now Phoebe, in her midnight reign, 
Dark muffled, view'd the dreary plain ; 
Still crowding thoughts, a pensive train, 

Rose in my soul, 
When on my ear this plaintive strain, 

Slow, solemn stole — 

' Blow, blow, ye winds, with heavier gust ! 
And freeze, ye bitter-biting frost ; 
Descend, ye chilly, smothering snows ; 
Not all your rage, as now, united, shows 

More hard unkindness, unrelenting, 

Vengeful malice unrepenting, 



118 



BURNS' WORKS. 



i on brother man 



Than beaven-illumin'd 
bestows ! 
See stern Oppression's iron grip, 
Or mad Ambition's gory hand, 
Sending, like blood-hounds from the slip, 

Woe, Want, and Murder o'er a land ! 
Even in the peaceful rural vale, 
Truth weeping, tells the mournful tale, 
How pampered Luxury, Flatt'ry by her side, 
The parasite empoisoning her ear, 
With all the servile wretches in the rear, 
Looks o'er proud property, extended wide ; 
And eyes the simple rustic hind, 

Whose toil upholds the glitt'ring show, 
A creature of another kind, 
Some courser substance, unrefined, 
Placed for her lordly use thus far, thus vile, 
below. 
Where, where is Love's fond, tender throe, 
With lordly Honour's lofty brow, 

The powers ye proudly own ? 
Js there, beneath Love's noble name, 
Can harbour, dark, the selfish aim, 

To bless himself alone ! 
Mark maiden-innocence a prey 

To love-pretending snares, 
This boasting Honour turns away, 
Shunning soft Pity's rising sway, 
Regardless of the tears, and unavailing 
prayrs ! 
Perhaps, this hour, in Mis'ry's squalid nest, 
She strains your infant to her joyless breast, 
And with a mother's fears shrinks at the rock- 
ing blast ! 
Oh ye ! who, sunk in beds of down, 
Feel not a want but what yourselves create, 
Think, for a moment, on his wretched fate, 
Whom friends and fortune quite disown ; 
Ill-satisfy'd keen Nature's clam'rous call, . 
Stretch'd on his straw he lays himself to 
sleep, 
While thro' the rugged roof and chinky wall, 
Chill o'er his slumbers piles the drifty heap ! 
Think on the dungeon's grim confine, 
Where guilt and poor misfortune pine ! 
Guilt, erring man, relenting view ! 
Rut shall thy legal rage pursue 
The wretch, already crushed low 
By cruel Fortune's undeserved blow ? 
Affliction's sons are brothers in distress, 
A brother to relieve,, how exquisite the 
bliss !' 

I heard nae mair, for Chanticleer 

Shook off the pouthery snaw, 
And hail'd the morning with a cheer, 

A cottage-rousing craw. 

But deep this truth impressed my mind — 

Thro' all his works abroad, 
The heart benevolent and kind, 

The most resembles God. 



EPISTLE TO DAVIE, 



*. BROTHER POET.* 



I. 



January - 



While winds frae aff Ben-Lomond blaw, 
And bar the doors wi' driving snaw, 

And hing us owre the ingle, 
I set me down to pass the time, 
And spin a verse or twa o' rhyme, 

Jn hamely westlan' jingle, 
While frosty winds blaw in the drift, 

Ben to the chimla lug, 
I grudge a wee the great folk's gift, 
That live sae bein and snug : 
I tent less, and want less 
Their roomy fireside ; 
But hanker and canker, 
To see their cursed pride. 

II. 

Its hardly in a body's powr 
To keep at times frae being sour, 
To see how things are shar'd ; 
How best o' chiels are whiles in want, 
While coofs on countless thousands rant, 

An' ken na how to wair't : 
But, Davie, lad, ne'er fash your head, 

Tho' we hae little gear, 
We're fit to win our daily bread, 
As lang's we're hale and fier : 
' Mair speir na, nor fear na'f 
Auld age ne'er mind a f'eg, 
The last o't, the warst o't, 
Is only for to beg. 

III. 

To lie in kilns and barns at e'en, 
When banes are craz'd and bluid is thin, 

Is, doubtless, great distress • 
Yet then, content could make us blest; 
Ev'n then sometimes we'd snatch a taste 

Of truest happiness. 
The honest heart that's free frae a' 

Intended fraud or guile 
However fortune kick the ba' t 
Has aye some cause to smile ; 
And mind still, you'll find still, 

A comfort this nae sma' ; 
Nae mair then, we'll care then, 
Nae farther can we fa', 

IV. 
What though like commoners of air, 
We wander out we know not where, 

But either house or hall ? 
Yet nature's charms, the hills and woods, 
The sweeping vales, and foaming floods, 

Are free alike to all. 
In days when daisies deck the ground, 

And blackbirds whistle clear, 



With honest joy our hearts will bound, 
To see the coming year, 

On braes when we please, then, 

We'll sit and sowth a tune ; 

Syne rhyme till't, we'll time till't, 

And sing't when we hae done. 

V. 
It* no in titles nor in rank ; 
It's no in wealth like Lon'on bank, 

To purchase peace and rest ; 
It's no in making muckle mair: 
It's no in books ; it's no in lear, 

To mak us truly blest ! 
If happiness hae not her seat 

And centre in the breast, 
We may be wise, or rich, or great, 
But never can be blest : 

Nae treasures, nor pleasures, 

Could make us happy lang ; 
The heart aye's the part aye, 
That makes us right or wrang. 

VI. 

Think ye that sic as you and I, 
Wha drudge and drive through wet an' dry, 

Wi' never ceasing toil ; 
Think ye, are we less blest than they, 
"Wha scarcely tent us in their way, 

As hardly worth their while ? 

Alas ! how oft in haughty mood, 

God's creatures they oppress ! 

Or else neglecting a' that's guid, 

They riot in excess ? 

Baith careless and fearless 
Of either heav'n or hell; 
Esteeming and deeming 
It's a' an idle tale ! 

VII. 

Then let us cheerfu' acquiesce ; 
Nor make our scanty pleasures less, 

By pining at our state ; 
And, even should misfortunes come, 
I here wha sit, hae met wi' some, 

An's thankfu' for them yet. 
They gie the wit of age to youth ; 
They let us ken oursel' ; 
They make us see the naked truth, 
The real guid and ill. 
Tho" losses and crosses, 

Be lessons right severe, 
There's wit there, ye'll get there, 
Yell find nae other where. 

VIII. 
But tent me, Davie, ace o' hearts ! 
(To say aught else wad wrang the cartes, 

And flatt'ry I detest) 
This life has joys for you and I ! 
And joys that riches ne'er could buy ; 

And joys the very best, 
There's a' the pleasures o' the heart, 

The lover an' the frien' ; 
Ye have your Meg, your dearest part, 

And I my darling Jean ' 



It warms me, it charms me, 
To mention but her name ; 

It heats me, it beets me, 
And sets me a' on llame 1 

IX. 

O all ye Powers who rule above ! 
O Thou whose very self art love I 

Thou knowest my words sincere ! 
The life-blood streaming thro' my heart, 
Or my more dear immortal part, 

Is not more fondly dear ! 
When heart-corroding care and grief 

Deprive my soul of rest, 
Her dear idea brings relief 
And solace to my breast. 
Thou Being, All seeing, 

O hear my fervent pray'r 

Still take her, and make hee, 

Thy most peculiar care ! 

X. 

All hail, ye tender feelings dear ! 
The smile of love, the friendly tear, 

The sympathetic glow ; 
Long since, this world's thorny ways 
Had numbered out my weary days, 

Had it not been for you ! 
Fate still has blest me with a friend, 

In every care and ill ; 
And oft a more endearing band, 
A tie more tender still. 
It lightens, it brightens 
The tenebrific scene, 
To meet with, and greet with 
My Davie or my Jean. 

XI. 

O, how that name inspires my style J 
The words come skelpin' rank and rile, 

Amaist before I ken ! 
The ready measure rins as fine, 
As Phoebus and the famous Nine 

Were glow'rin owre my pen. 
My spaviet Pegnms will limp, 

Till ance he's fairly het ; 
And then he'll hitch, and stilt, and jimp, 
An' rin an' unco fit ; 

But lest then, the beast then, 

Should rue his hasty ride, 

I'll light now, and dight now 

His sweaty wizen'd hide. 



THE LAMENT. 



O thou pale orb, that silent shines, 
While care untroubled mortals sleep ! 



120 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Thou seest a wretch that inly pines, 
And wanders here to wail and weep ! 

With woe I nightly vigils keep, 
Beneath thy wan unwarrr.ing beam ; 

And mourn, in lamentation deep, 
How life and love are all a dream. 

II. 

I joyless view thy rays adorn 

The faintly marked distant hill : 
I joyless view thy trembling horn 

Reflected in the gurgling rill : 
My fondly fluttering heart be still 

Thou busy power, Remembrance, cease ! 
Ah ! must the agoniziug thrill 

For ever bar returning peace ! 

III. 

No idly feign'd poetic pains, 

My sad, love-lorn lamentings claim ; 
No shepherd's pipe — Arcadian strains; 

No fabled tortures, quaint and tame ; 
The plighted faith ; the mutual flame ; 

The oft-attested Powers above ; 
The promised Fathers tender name ; 

These were the pledges of my love ! 

IV. 

Encircled in her clasping arms, 

How have the rapturd moments flown ! 
How have I wish'd for Fortune's charms, 

For her dear sake and hers alone ! 
And must I think it? is she gone, 

My secret heart's exulting boast ? 
And does she heedless hear my groan ? 

And is she ever, ever lost ! 

V. 

Oh ! can she bear so base a heart, 

So lost to honour, lost to truth, 
As from the fondest lover part, 

The plighted husband of her youth ! 
Alas ! life's path may be unsmooth ! 

Her way may lie thro' rough distress ! 
Then, who her pangs and pains will sooth ? 

Her sorrows share and make them less ? 

VI. 

Ye winged hours that o'er us past, 

Enraptur'd more, the more enjoy'd, 
Your dear remembrance in my breast, 

My fondly-treasur'd thoughts employ'd. 
That breast how dreary now, and void, 

For her too scanty once of room ! 
Ev'n ev'ry ray of hope destroy'd, 

And not a wish to gild the gloom ! 

VII. 
The morn that warns the approaching day, 

Awakes me up to toil and woe : 
I see the hours in long array, 

That I must suffer, lingering, slow. 
Full many a pang, and many a throe, 

Keen recollection's direful train, 



Must wring my soul, ere Phoebus, low. 
Shall kiss the distant, western main 

VIII. 
And when my nightly couch I try, 

Sore-harass'd out with care and grief, 
My toil-beat nerves, and tear- worn eye, 

Keep watchings with the nightly thief 
Or if I slumber, fancy, chief, 

Reigns haggard wild, in sore affright: 
Ev'n day, all hitter, brings relief, 

From such a horror-breathing night. 

IX. 
O ! thou bright queen, who o'er th' expanse 

Now highest reign'sl, with boundless sway 
Oft has thy silent-marking glance 

Observ'd us fondly wandering, stray : 
The time, unheeded, sped away, 

While love's luxurious pulse beat high, 
Beneath thy silver-gleaming ray, 

To mark the mutual kindling eye. 

X. 

Oh ! scenes in strong remembrance set I 

Scenes, never, never, to return ! 
Scenes, if in stupor I forget, 

Again I feel, again I burn ! 
From ev'ry joy and pleasure torn, 

Life's weary vale I'll wander thro' ; 
And hopeless, comfortless, I'll mourn 

A faithless woman's broken vow. 



DESPONDENCY- 



I. 

OppRESs'n with prief, oppress'd with cart 
A burden more than I can bear, 

I sit me down and sigh : 
O life ! thou art a galling load, 
Along a rough, a weary road, 

To wretches such as I ! 
Dim backward as I cast my view, 
What sick'ning scenes appear ! 
What sorrows yet may pierce me thro* 
Too justly I may fear ! 
Still caring, despairing, 

Must be my bitter doom ; 

My woes here shall close ne'er, 

But with the closing tomb ! 

II. 

Happy, ye sons of busy life, 
Who, equal to the bustling strife, 

No other view regard ! 
Ev'n when the wished end's deny'd, 
Yet while the busy means are piy'd, 

They bring their own reward : 
Whilst I, a hope-abandon'd wight, 

Unfitted with an aim, 
Meet ev'ry sad returning night, 

And joyless morn the same j 



You, busline, and justling, 
Forget each grief and pain : 

I, listless, yet restless, 
Find ev'iy prospect vain. 

III. 

How blest the solitary's lot, 
Who, all-forgetting, all-forgot, 

Within his humble cell, 
The cavern wild with tangling roots, 
Sits o'er his newly gather'd fruits, 

Beside his crystal well ! 
Or haply, to his ev'ning thought, 

By unfrequented stream, 
The ways of men are distant brought, 
A faint collected dream ; 
While praising, and raising 

His thoughts to heav'n on high, 
As wand'ring, meand'ring, 
He views the solemn sky. 

IV. 

Than I, no lonely hermit placed 
Where never human footstep tiaced, 

Less fit to play the part ; 
The lucky moment to improve, 
And just to stop, and just to move, 

With self-respecting art: 
But ah i those pleasures, loves, and joys, 

Which I too keenly taste, 
The Solitary can despise, 
Can want, and yet be blest ! 
He needs not, he heeds not, 

Or human love or hate, 
Whilst I here must cry here, 
At perfidy ingrate ! 



Oh ! enviable, early days, 

When dancing thoughtless pleasure's maze, 

To care, to guilt unknown ! 
How ill exchanged for riper times, 
To feel the follies, or the crimes, 

Of others, or my own : 
Ye tiny elves that guiltless sport, 

Like linnets in the bush, 
Ye little know the ills ye court, 
When manhood is your wish! 
The losses, the crosses, 

That active men engage ! 
The fears all, the tears all, 
Of dim declining age! 



WINTER. 

A DIRGE. 
I. 

The wintry west extends his blast, 

And hail and rain does blaw ; 
Or, the stormy north sends driving forth 

The blinding sleet and snaw : 
White tumbling brown, the burn comes down, 

And roars frae bank to brae ; 



And bird and beast in covert rest, 
And pass the heartless day. 

II. 

" The sweeping blast, the sky o'ercast,"* 

The joyless winter-day, 
Let others fear, to me more dear 

Than all the pride of May: 
The tempest's howl, it soothes my soul, 

My griefs it seems to join, 
The leafless trees my fancy please, 

Their fate resembles mine ! 

III. 
Thou Power Supreme, whose mighty scheme 

These woes of mine fulfil, 
Here, firm, I rest, they must be best, 

Because they are Thy Will ! 
Then all I want (O, do thou grant 

This one request of mine !) 
Since to enjoy thou dost deny, 

Assist me to resign. 



COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. 

INSCRIBED TO R. AITKEN, ESQ. 



Let not ambition mock their useful toil, 
Their homely joys and destiny obscure ; 

Nor grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile, 
The short but simple annals of the poor. — Gray. 



My loved, my honour'd, much respected 
friend, 
No mercenary bard his homage pays : 
With honest pride I scorn each selfish end : 
My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and 
praise : 
To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays, 

The lowly train in life's sequester'd scene; 
The native feelings strong, the guileless 
ways ; 
What Aitken in a cottage would have 
been ; 
Ah ! tho' his worth unknown, far happier there, 
I ween. 

II. 

November chill blaws loud wi' angry sough ; 
The short'ning winter-day is near a close ; 
The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugb ; 
The black'ning trains o' craws to their 
repose : 
The toil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes, 
This night his weekly moil is at an end, 
Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his 
hoes, 



122 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend, 
And weary, o'er the moor, his course do< 
hameward bend. 

III. 
At length his lonely cot appears in view, 

Beneath the shelter of an aged tree ; 
Th' expectant wee things, toddlin, stacher 
thro' [an' glee. 

To meet their Dad, wi' fiichterin' noise 
His wee bit ingle, blinkin' bonnily, 

His clean hearth-stane, his thriftie wifie's 
smile, 
The lisping infant prattling on his knee, 
Does a' his weary carking cares beguile, 
And makes him quite forget his labour an' his toil. 

IV. 

Belyve the elder bairns come drapping in, 
At service out amang the farmers roun', 
Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some tentie 
rin 
A cannie errand to a neebor town • 
Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman 
grown, 
In youthfu' bloom, love sparklin'in her e'e, 
Comes hame, perhaps, to show a bra' new 
gown, 
Or deposit her sair-won penny fee, 
To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be. 

V. 

Wi' joy unfeign'd brothers and sisters meet, 

An' each for other's weelfare kindly spiers: 
The social hours, swift-wing'd, unnotic'd 
fleet; 

Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears ; 
The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years ; 

Anticipation forward points the view, 
The mother, wi' her needle an' her shears, 

Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the 

rhe father mixes a' wi' admonition due. 

VI. 
Their master's an' their mistress's command, 
' The younkers a' are warned to obey ; 
* And mind their labours vvi'an eydent hand, 
And ne'er tho' out o' sight, to jauk or play ; 
An' O ! be sure to fear the Lokd ahvay ! 

An' mind your duty, duly, morn an' night ! 
Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray, 
Implore his counsel and assisting might : 
They never sought in vain that sought the 
Lord aright !' 

VII. 

But, hark ! a rap comes gently to the door, 

Jenny, wha kens the meanin go' the same, 

Tells how a neebor lad cam o'er the moor, 

To do some errands, and convey her hame. 

The wily mother sees the conscious flame 

Sparkle in Jermy's e'e, and flush her cheek ; 
Wi' heart-struck anxious care, inquires his 
name, 
While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak ; 
Weel pleas'd the mother hears it's nae wild 
worthless rake. 



VIII 



Wi' kindly welcome Jenny brings him ben ; 
A strappin youth ; he taks the mother's e'ej 
Blithe Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta'en ; 
The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and 
kye. [joy, 

The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' 
But blate and laithfu', scarce can weel 
behave ; 
The mother wi' a woman's wiles, can spy 
What makes the youth sae bashfu' an' sae 
grave ; 
Weel pleas'd to think her bairn's respected like 
the lave. 

IX. 
O happy love ! where love like this is found .' 
O heart-felt raptures ! bliss beyond com- 
pare! 
I've paced much this weary mortal round, 

And sage experience bids me this declare — 
'If Heav'n a draught "of heavenly pleasure 
spare, 
One cordial in this melancholy vale, 
'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair, 
In other's arms breathe out the tender tale, 
Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the 
ev'ning gale.' 

X. 

Is there, in human form, that bears a heart — 
A wretch ! a villain ! lost to love and truth '. 
That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art, 

Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth ? 
Curse on his perjur'd arts ! dissembling 
smooth ! 
Are honour, virtue, conscience all exil'd ? 
Is there no pity, no relenting ruth, 

Points to the parents fondling o'er their 
child ! 
Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their distrac- 
tion wild ? 

XI 
But now the supper crowns their simple 
board, 
The heAesome parritch,ch\ef o' Scotia's food: 
The sowpe their only Hawkie does afford, 
That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her 
cood: 
The dame brings forth in complimental mood, 
To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd kebbuck 
fell, 
An' aft he's prest, an' aft he ca's it guid j 
The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell, 
How 'twas a towmond auld, sin' lint was i' the 
bell. 

XII. 
The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face, 
They, round the ingle, form a circle wide ; 
The sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace, 

The big ha'-Bible, ance his father's pride : 
His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside, 

His lyart haffets wearing thin an' hare : 
Those strains that once did sweet in Ziou 
glide, 



He wales a portion with judicious care ; 
And ' Let vs worship God !' he says, with 
solemn air. 

XIII. 

Theychant theirartless notes in simple guise ; 

They tune their hearts, by far the noblest 

aim : [rise; 

Perhaps Dundee's wild warbling measures 

Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the name : 

Or noble Elgin beets the heav'n-ward flame, 

The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays : 
Compared with these, Italian trills are tame ; 
The tickl'd ears no heart-felt raptures raise ; 
f*lae unison hae they with our Creator's praise. 

XIV. 

The priest-like father reads the sacred page, 

How Abram was the friend of God on high ; 
Or, Moses bade eternal warfare wage 

With Amalek's ungracious progeny ; 
Or how the royal bard did groaning lie [ire ; 

Beneath the stroke of Heav'n's avenging 
Or, Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry ; 

Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire ; 
Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. 

XV. 
Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme, 
How guiltless blood for guilty man was 
shed ; [name, 

How He, who bore in Heaven the second 
Had not on earth whereon to lay his head ; 
How his first followers and servants sped : 

The precepts page they wrote to many a 
How he, who lone in Patmos banished, [land : 
Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand ; 
And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronounced 
by Heaven's command. 

XVI. 

Then kneeling down to Heaven's eternal 

King, [prays : 

The saint, the father, and the husband 

Hope ' springs exulting on triumphant wing,'* 

That thus they all shall meet in future 

There ever bask in uncreated rays, [days : 

No more to sigh or shed the bitter tear, 
Together hymning their Creator's praise, 
In such society, yet still more dear ; 
While circling time moves round in an eternal 
sphere. 

XVII. 
Compared with this,how poor Religion's pride, 

In all the pomp of method, and of art, 
When men display to congregations wide, 

Devotion's ev'ry grace, except the heart ! 
The Pow'r incensed the pageant will desert, 
The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole ; 
But haply, in some cottage far apart, 

May hear, well-pleased, the language of the 
soul : 
And in bis book of life the inmates poor enrol. 



* Tope's Windsor Forest 



MS. 123 

XVIII. 
Then homeward all take off their sev'ral way; 

The youngling cottagers retire to rest 
The parent pair their secret homage pay, 
And proffer up to Heaven the warm re- 
quest, 
That Be who stills the raven's clam'rous nest, 

And decks the lily fair in flow'ry pride, 
Would in the way his wisdom sees the best, 
For them and for their little ones provide ; 
But chiefly in their hearts with grace divine 
preside. 

XIX. 

From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur 
springs, 
That makes her loved at home, revered 
abroad : 
Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, 
" An honest man's the noblest work of 
God!" 
And certes, in fair virtue's heav'nly road, 

The cottage leaves the palace far behind ; 

What is a lordling's pomp ! a cumbrous load 

Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, 

Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refined ! 

XX. 

O Scotia I my dear, my native soil 

For whom my warmest wish to Heaven 
is sent ! 
Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil, 
Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet 
content ! 
And, O ! may Heavn their simple lives pre- 
vent 
From Luxury's contagion, weak and vile : 
Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, 
A virtuous populace may rise the while, 
And stand a wall of fire around their much- 
loved Isle. 

XXI. 

O Thou ! who pour'd the patriotic tide, 

That stream'd thro' Wallace's undaunted 

heart : 

Who dared to nobly stem tyrannic pride, 

Or nobly die, the second glorious part, 

(The patriot's God, peculiarly thou art, 

His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward!) 
O never, never, Scotia's realm desert ; 
But still the patriot and the patriot bard, 
In bright succession raise, her ornament and 
guard ! 



MAN WAS MADE TO MO URN t 

A DIRGE. 
]. 

When chill November's surly blast 

Made fields and forests bare, 
One ev'ning, as I wander'd forth 

Along the banks of Ayr, 



124 



BURNS' WORKS. 



I spy'd a man, whose aged step 
Seem'd weary, worn with care ; 

His face was furrow'd o'er with years, 
And hoary was his hair. 

II. 

Young stranger, whither wand'rest thou ? 

Began the rev'rend sage ; 
Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain 

Or youthful pleasure's rage ! 
Or, haply, prest with cares and woes, 

Too soon thou hast began 
To wander forth, with me to mourn 

The miseries of man ! 

III. 
The sun that overhangs yon moors, 

Out-spreading far and wide, 
Where hundreds labour to support 

A haughty lordling's pride ; 
I've seen yon weary winter-sun 

Twice forty times return ; 
And ev'ry time has added proofs 

That man was made to mourn. 

IV. 
O man ! while in thy early years, 

How prodigal of time ! 
Mispending all thy precious hours : 

Thy glorious youthful prime ! 
Alternate follies take the sway ; 

Licentious passions burn ; 
Which tenfold force gives Nature's law, 

That man was made to mourn 

V. 
Look not alone on youthful prime, 

Or manhood's active might ; 
Man then is useful to his kind, 

Supported is his right : 
But see him on the edge of life, 

With cares and sorrows worn, 
Then age and want, Oh ! ill-match'd pair ! 

Show man was made to mourn. 

VI, 

A few seem favourites of fate, 

In pleasure's lap carest ; 
Yet, think not all the rich and great 

Are likewise truly blest. 
But, Oh ! what crowds in every land, 

Are wretched and forlorn ; 
Thro' weary life this lesson learn, 

That man was made to mourn. 

VII. 
Many and sharp the num'rous ills. 

Inwoven with our frame . 
More pointed still we make ourselves, 

Regret, remorse, and shame ! 
And man, whose heav'n-erected face 

The smiles of love adorn, 
Man's inhumanity to man 

Makes countless thousands mourn ! 



VIII. 



See yonder poor, o'erlabour'd wight, 

So abject, mean, and vile, 
Who begs a brother of the earth 

To give him leave to toil ; 
And see his lordly fellow-worm 

The poor petition spurn, 
Unmindful tho* a weeping wife 

And helpless offspring mourn. 

IX. 

If I'm design'd yon lordling's slave- 
By Nature's law design'd, 

Why was an independent wish 
E'er planted in my mind? 

If not, why am I subject to 
His cruelty or scorn ? 

Or why has man the will and pow'r 
To make his fellow mourn ? 



Yet let not this too much, my son, 

Disturb thy youthful breast : 
This partial view of human-kind 

Is surely not the last ! 
The poor, oppressed, honest man, 

Had never, sure, been born, 
Had there not been some recompense 

To comfort those that mourn ! 

XL 

O Death ! the poor man's dearest friend, 

The kindest and the best ! 
Welcome the hour my aged limbs 

Are laid with thee at rest 
The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow, 

From pomp and pleasure torn ; 
But Oh ! a blest relief to those 

That, weary-laden, mourn ! 



A PRAYER 

IN THE PROSPECT OF DEATH. 
I. 

O thou unknown Almighty Cause 

Of all my hope and fear ! 
In whose dread presence, ere an hour, 

Perhaps I must appear ! 

II. 

If I have wander'd in those paths 

Of life I ought to shun : 
As something loudly, in my breast, 

Remonstrates I have done ; 

III. 
Thou know'st that Thou hast formed n 

With passions wild and strong ; 
And list'ning to their witching voice 

Has often led me wrong. 



IV. 
Where human weakness has come short, 

Or frailty stept aside, 
Do thou All Good '. for such thou art, 

In shades of darkness hide. 



Where with intention I have err'd, 

No other plea I have, 
But Thou art good; and goodness still 

Delighteth to forgive. 



ON THE SAME OCCASION. 

Why am I loath to leave this earthly scene ? 
Have I so found it full of pleasing charms ? 
Some drops of joy with draughts of ill be- 
tween : 
Some gleams of sunshine 'mid renewed 
storms : 
Is it departing pangs my soul alarms ; 

Or death's unloveiy, dreary, dark abode ? 
For guilt, for guilt, my terrors are in arms ; 
I tremble to approach an angry God, 
And justly smart beneath his sin-avenging rod. 

Fain would I say, ' Forgive my foul offence ! 

Fain promise never more to disobey ; 
But, should my Author health again dis- 
pense, 
Again I might desert fair virtue's way; 
Again in folly's path might go astray ; 

Again exalt the brute and sink the man ; 
Then how should I for heavenly mercy 
pray, 
Who act so counter heavenly mercy's 
plan ? 
Who sin so oft have mourn'd, yet to tempta- 
tion ran ? 

O Thou great Governor of all below ! 
If I may dare a lifted eye to Thee, 
Thy nod can make the tempest cease to 
blow, 
Or still the tumult of the raging sea ; 
With that controlling pow'r assist ev'n me, 
Those headlong furious passions to con- 
fine ; 
For all unfit I feel my pow'rs to be, 

To rule their torrent in th' allowed line ! 
O aid me with thy help, Omnipotence Divine I 



LYING AT A REVEREND FRIEND'S HOUSE ONE 
NIGHT, THE AUTHOR LEFT THE FOLLOWING 



VERSES, 



IN THE ROOM WHERE HE SLEPT 



O thou dread Pow'r, who reign 'st above, 
I know thou wilt me bear, 



.MS. 125 

When for this scene of peace and love, 
I make my prayer sincere. 

II. 

The hoary sire — the mortal stroke 
Long, long be pleased to spare, 

To bless his little filial flock, 
And show what good men are. 

IIL 

She, who her lovely offspring eyes 

With tender hopes and fears, 
O bless her with a mother's joys, 

But spare a mother's tears ! 

IV. 

Their hope, their stay, their darling youth, 

In manhood's dawning blush ; 
Bless him, thou God of love and truth, 

Up to a parent's wish ! 



The beauteous, seraph sister-band, 

With earnest tears I pray, 
Thou know'st the snares on ev'ry hand, 

Guide thou their steps alway ! 

VI. 

When soon or late they reach that coast, 
O'er life's rough ocean driv'n, 

May they rejoice, no wand'rer lost, 
A family in Heav'n ! 



THE FIRST PSALM. 

The man, in life wherever placed, 

Hath happiness in store, 
Who walks not in the wicked's way, 

Nor learns their guilty lore ! 

Nor from the seat of scornful pride 
Casts forth his eyes abroad, 

But with humility and awe 
Still walks before his God. 

That man shall flourish like the trees 
Which by the streamlets grow ; 

The fruitful top is spread on high, 
And firm the root below 

But he whose blossom buds in guilt 
Shall to the ground be cast, 

And like the rootless stubble, tost 
Before the sweeping blast. 

For why ? that God the good adore 
Hath giv'n them peace and rest, 

But hath decreed that wicked men 
Shall ne'er be truly blest. 



126 



BURNS' WORKS. 



A PRAYER. 

UNDER THE PRESSURE OF VIOLENT ANGUISH. 

O thou Great Being ; what thou art 

Surpasses me to know : 
Vet sure am I, that known to thee 

Are all thy works below. 

Thy creature here before thee stands ; 

All wretched and distrest ; 
Yet sure those ills that wring my soul 

Obey thy high behest. 

Sure thou, Almighty, caust not act 

From cruelty or wrath ! 
O free my weary eyes from tears, 

Or close them fast in death ! 

But if I must afflicted be, 

To suit some wise design ; 
Then man my soul with firm resolves, 

To bear and not repine. 



the first six verses of 
THE NINETIETH PSALM 

O thou, the first, the greatest Friend 

Of all the human race ! 
Whose strong right hand has ever been 

Their stay and dwelling place ! 

Before the mountains heav'd their heads 

Beneath thy forming hand, 
Before this pond'rous globe itself 

Arose at thy command ; 

That pow'r which rais'd, and still upholds 

This universal frame, 
From countless, unbeginning time, 

Was ever still the same. 

Those mighty periods of years, 

Which seem to us so vast, 
Appear no more before thy sight, 

Than yesterday that's past. 

Thou gav'st the word : Thy creature, man, 

Is to existence brought : 
Again thou say'st, ' Ye sons of men, 

Return ye into nought!' 

Thou layest them, with all their cares, 

In everlasting sleep •, 
As with a flood thou tak'st them off 

With overwhelming sweep. 

They nourish like the morning flow'r, 

In beauty's pride array'dj 
But long ere night cut down, it lies 

All wither'd and decay'd. 



TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY, 



Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r, 
Thou's met me in an evil hour ; 
For I maun crush amang the stoure 

Thy slender stem j 
To spare thee now is past my pow'r, 

Thou bonnie gem. 

Alas ! it's no thy neebor sweet, 
The bonny Lark, companion meet ! 
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet ! 

Wi' spreckl'd breast, 
When upward-springing, blithe, to greet 

The purpling east. 

Cauld blew the bitter-biting north 
Upon thy early, humble, birth ; 
Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth 

Amid the storm, 
Scarce rear'd above the parent earth 

Thy tender form. 

The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield, 
High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield 
But thou beneath the random bield 

O' clod or stane, 
Adorns the histie stibble-Jield, 

Unseen, alane. 

There, in thy scanty mantle clad, 
Thy snawie bosom sun- ward spread, 
Thou lifts thy unassuming head 

In humble guise ; 
But now the share uptears thy bed, 

And low thou lies ! 

Such is the fate of artless Maid, 
Sweet floweret of the rural shade ! 
By love's simplicity betray'd, 

And guileless trust, 
Till she. like thee, all soil'd, is laid 

Low i' the dust. 

Such is the fate of simple Bard, 
On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd, 
Unskilful he to note the card 

Of prudent lore, 
Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, 

And whelm him o'er ! 

Such fate to suffering worth is giv'n, 
Who long with wants and woes has striv'n, 
By human pride or cunning driv'n 

To mis'ry's brink, 
Till wrench'd of every stay but Heaven, 

He, ruin'd, sink ! 

Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate, 
That fate is thine — no distant date : 



Stern Ruin's plough share drives, elate 
Full on thy bloom, 

Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight, 
Shall be thy doom ! 



All hail ! inexorable lord ! 

At whose destruction-breathing word, 

The mightiest empires fall ! 
Thy cruel, woe- delighted train, 
The ministers of grief and pain, 

A sullen welcome, all ! 
With stern-resolv'd, despairing eye, 

I see each aimed dart ; 
For one has cut my dearest tie, 
And quivers in my heart. 
Then lowring and pouring, 

The storm no more I dread ; 
Tho' thick'ning and black'ning, 
Round my devoted head. 

II. 

Arid thou grim power, by life abhorr'd, 
While life a pleasure can afford, 
Oh ! hear a wretch's prayer: 
No more I shrink appall'd, afraid ; 
I court, I beg thy friendly aid, 
To close this scene of care ! 
When shall my soul, in silent peace, 

Resign life's joyless day ; 
My weary heart its throbbings cease, 
Cold mouldering in the clay ? 
No fear more, no tear more, 
To stain my lifeless face ; 
Enclasped, and grasped 
Within thy cold embrace ! 



TO MISS L , 

WITH BEATTIE'S POEMS, AS A NEW-YEAR'S GIFT, 
JAN. 1, 1787. 

Again the silent wheels of time 

Their annual round have driv'n, 
And you tho' scarce in maiden prime, 

Are so much nearer Heav'n. 

No gifts have I from Indian coasts 

The infant year to hail ; 
I send you more than India boasts 

In Edwin's simple tale. 

Our sex with guile and faithless love 

Is charg'd, perhaps, too true ; 
But may, dear maid, each lover prove 

A n lldwin still to you ! 



MS. 127 

EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND 

may , 1786. 

I. 

I lang hae thought, my youthfu' Friend, 

A something to have sent you, 
Tho' it should serve nae other end 

Than just a kind memento ; 
But how the subject theme may gang, 

Let time and chance determine j 
Perhaps it may turn out a sang, 

Perhaps turn out a sermon. 

II. 

Ye'll try the warld soon, my lad, 

And, Andrew dear, believe me, 
Ye'll find mankind an unco squad, 

And muckle they may grieve ye ; 
For care and trouble set your thought, 

E'en when your end's attained ; 
An a' your views may come to nought, 

Where ev'ry nerve is strained. 

III. 
I'll no say, men are villains a' ; 

The real, harden'd wicked, 
Wha hae nae check but human law, 

Are to a few restricked : 
But och, mankind are unco weak, 

An' little to be trusted ; 
If seethe wavering balance shake, 

Its rarely right adjusted ; 

IV. 

Yet they wha fa' in fortune's strife 

Their fate we should na censure, 
For still th' important end of life 

They equally may answer ; 
A man may hae an honest heart, 

Tho' poortith hourly stare him ; 
A man may tak a neebor's part, 

Yet hae nae cash to spare him. 



Aye free aff han' your story tell, 

When wi' a bosom crony ; 
But still keep something to yoursel' 

Ye scarcely tell to ony. 
Conceal yoursel' as weel's ye can 

Frae critical dissection ; 
But keek thro' every other man, 

Wi' sharpen'd sly inspection. 

VI. 

The sacred lowe o' weel plac'd lov : 

Luxuriantly indulge it ; 
But never tempt th' illicit rove, 

Tho' naething should divulge it 
I wave the quantum o' the sin, 

The hazard of concealing ; 
But och ! it hardens a' within, 

And petrifies the feeling ! 

VII. 
To catch dame Fortune's golden smile, 
Assiduous wait upon her • 



128 

And gather gear by ev'ry wile, 
That's justified by honour ; 

Not for to hide it in a hedge, 
Nor for a train-attendant ; 

But for the glorious privilege 
Of being independent. 

VIII. 
The fear o' hell's a hangman's whip. 

To haud the wretch in order ; 
But where ye feel your honour grip, 

Let that aye be your border ; 
Its slightest touches, instant pause — 

Debar a' side pretences ; 
And resolutely keep its laws, 

Uncaring consequences. 

IX. 

The great Creator to revere, 

Must sure become the creature ; 
But still the preaching cant forbear, 

And ev'n the rigid feature : 
Yet ne'er with wits profane to range, 

Be complaisance extended ; 
An' Atheist's laugh's a poor exchange 

For Deity offended ! 



When ranting round in pleasure's ring, 

Religion may be blinded ! 
Or, if she gie a random sting, 

It may be little minded : 
But when on life we're tempest driv'n, 

A conscience but a canker — 
A correspondence fix'd vvi' Heav'n, 

Is sure a noble anchor. 

XL 
Adieu, dear amiable youth ! 

Your heart can ne'er be wanting : 
May prudence, fortitude, and truth, 

Erect your brow undaunting ! 
In ploughman phrase, ' God send you speed,' 

Still daily to grow wiser ; 
And may you better reck the rede, 

Than ever did th' adviser ! 



ON A SCOTCH BARD 

GONE TO THE WEST INDIES. 

A ye wha live by soups o' drink, 
A' ye wha live by crambo-clink, 
A.' ye wha live and never think, 

Come mourn wi' me ! 
Our billies gi'en us a' a jink, 

An' owre the sea. 

Lament him a> ye rantin' core, 
Wha dearly like a random splore, 
Nae mair he'll join the merry roar, 
In social key ; 



BURNS' WORKS. 



For now he's ta'en anither shore, 

An' owre the sea. 

The bonnie lassies weel may miss him, 
And in their dear petitions place him : 
The widows, wives, an' a' may bless him, 

Wi' tearf'u' e'e ; 
For weel I wat they'll sairly miss him, 

That's owre the sea. 

O Fortune, they ha'e room to grumble ! 
Hadst thou ta'en aff some drowsy hummel, 
Wha can do nought but fyke an' fumble, 
'Twad been nae plea ; 
But he was gleg as ony wumble. 

That's owre the sea. 

Auld, cantie Kyle may weepers wear, 
An' stain them wi' the saut, saut tear ; 
' Twill mak' her poor auld heart, I fear, 

In flinders flee ; 
He was her laureate monie a year, 

That's owre the sea. 

He saw misfortune's cauld nore-wast 
Lang mustering up a bitter blast ; 
A jillet brak' his heart at last, 

111 may she be ! 
So, took a birth afore the mast, 

An' owre the sea. 

To tremble under Fortune's cummock, 

On scarce a bellyfu' o' drummock, 

Wi' his proud independent stomach 

Could ill agree ; 

So row't his hurdies in a hammock, 

An' owre the sea. 

He ne'er was gi'en to great misguiding 
Yet coin his pouches wad na bide in ; 
Wi' him it ne'er was under hiding ; 

He dealt it free : 
The muse was a' that he took pride in, 

That's owre the sea. 

Jamaica bodies, use him weel, 
An' hap him in a cozie biel ; 
Ye'll find him aye a dainty chiel, 

And fu' o' glee : 
He wadna wrang'd the vera deil, 

That's owre the sea. 

Fareweel, my rhyme-composing billie t 
Your native soil was right ill-willie ; 
But may ye flourish like a lily, 

Now bonnilie; 
I'll toast ye in my hindmost gillie, 

Tho' owre the sea. 



TO A HAGGIS. 



Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face, 
Great chieftain o' the puddin.rar« 



A boon them a' ye tak your place, 

Painch, tripe, or tbairm : 

Weel are ye wordy of a grace 

As lung's my arm. 

The groaning trencher there ye fill, 
Your hurdies like a distant hill, 
Your pin wad help to mend a mill 
In time o* need, 
While thro' your pores the dews distill 
Like amber bead. 

His knife see rustic labour dight, 
An' cut you up wi' ready slight, 
Trenching your gushing entrails bright, 

Like onie ditch ; 
And then, O what a glorious sight, 

Warm-reekin, rich ! 

Then horn for horn they stretch an' strive, 
Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive, 
Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve 

Are bent like drums ; 
Then auld guidman, maist like to ryve, 
Bethankit hums. 

h there that o'er his French ragout, 
Or olio that wad staw a sow, 
Or fricassee wad mak her spew, 

Wi' perfect sconner, 
Looks down wi' sneering, seornfu' view, 

On sic a dinner ? 

Poor devil ! see him owre his trash, 
As feckless as a wither'd rash, 
His spindle-shank a guid whip lash, 

His nieve a nit ; 
Thro- bloody flood or field to dash, 

O how unfit ! 

But mark the rustic, haggis-fed, 
The trembling earth resounds his tread, 
Clap in his walie nieve a blade, 

He'il make it vvhissle ; 
An' legs, an' arms, an' heads will sned, 

Like taps o' thrissle. 

Ye Pow'rs wha mak mankind your care, 
And dish them out their bill o' fare, 
Auld Scotland wants na skinking ware 

That jaups in luggies ; 
But, if ye wish her gratefu' pray'r, 

Gie her a Haggis ' 



A DEDICATION. 

TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ. 

Expect na, Sir, in this narration, 
A fleechin, fleth'rin dedication, 
To rooze you up, an' ca' you guid, 
An' sprung o' great an' noble bluid, 
Because ye're surnamed like his grace, 
Perhaps related to the race ; 



Then when I'm tired — and sae are#:. 
Wi' mony a fulsome, sinfu' lie, 
Set up a face, how I stop short, 
For fear your modesty be hurt. 

This may do — maun do, Sir, wi' them w 
Maun please the great folk for a wamefu' ; 
For me ! sae laigh I needna bow, 
For, Lord be thankit, I can jilough 
And when I dinna yofce a naig, 
Then, Lord be thankit, lean beg; 
Sae I shall say, and that's nae tlatt'rin', 
Its just sic poet an' sic patron. 

The Poet, some guid angel help him, 
Or else, I fear some ill ane skelp him ; 
He may do weel for a' he's done yet, 
| But only he's no just begun yet. 

[ The Patron, (Sir, ye man forgie me, 
i I winna lie, come what wili o' me) 
I On ev'ry hand it will allowed be, 
! He's just — nae better than he should bfc. 

I readily and freely grant, 
He downa see a poor man want ; 
i What's no his ain he winna tak it, 
What ance he says he winna break it ; 
Ought he can lend he'll no refuse't, 
Till aft his goodness is abused ; 
And rascals whyles that do him wrang, 
Ev'n that, he does na mind it lang ; 
As master, landlord, husband, father, 
He does na fail his part in either. 

But then, na thanks to him for a' that; 
Nae godly symptom ye can ca' that ; 
It's naething but a milder feature, 
Of our poor, sinfu' corrupt nature : 
Ye'll get the best o' moral works, 
Mang black Gentoos and pagan Turks, 
Or hunters wild on Ponotaxi 
Wha never heard of orthodoxy. 
That he's the poor man's friend in need, 
The gentleman in word and deed, 
It's no thro' terror of damnation ; 
It's just a carnal inclination. 

Morality, tbou deadly bane, 
Thy tens o' thousands thou hast slain ! 
Vain is his hope, whose stay and trust is 
In moral mercy, truth, and justice ! 

No — stretch a point to catch a plack ; 
Abuse a brother to his back ; 
Steal thro a winnoch frae a wh-re, 
But point the rake that taks the door : 
Be to the poor like onie whunstane, 
And haud their noses to the grunstane ; 
Ply ev'ry art o' legal thieving ; 
No matter, stick to sound b '' 

Learn three mile pray'rs, an half-mile graces, 
Wi' weel-spread looves, an' lang wry faces ; 
Grunt up a solemn, lengthen'd groun, 
And damn a' parties but your own ; 



BURNS' WORKS. 



I'll warrant then, ye're nae deceiver, 
A steady, sturdy, staunch believer. 

ye vvha leave the springs of Calvin, 
For gumlie dubs of your ain delvin ! 

Ye sons of heresy and error, 
Ye'll some day squeel in quaking terror ! 
When vengeance draws the sword in wrath, 
And in the fire throws the sheath ; 
When ruin with his sweeping besom, 
Just frets till Heav'n commission gies him : 
While o'er the harp pale Misery moans, 
And strikes the ever-deep'ning tones, 
Still louder shrieks, and heavier groans ! 

Your pardon, Sir, for this digression, 
I maist forgat my dedication ; 
But when divinity comes cross me, 
My readers still are sure to lose me. 

So, Sir, ye see twas nae daft vapour, 
But I maturely thought it proper, 
When a' my works I did review, 
To dedicate them, Sir, to You : 
Because (ye need na tak it ill) 
I thought them something like yoursel'. 

Then patronise them wi' your favour, 
And your petitioner shall ever — 
I had amaist said ever pray, 
But that's a word I need na say : 
For prayin' I hae little skill o't ; 
I'm baith dead-sweer, an' wretched ill o't ; 
But I'se repeat each poor man's prayer, 
That kens or hears about you, Sir — 

" May ne'er misfortune's gowling bark. 
Howl thro' the dwelling o' the Clerk! 
May ne'er his gen'rous, honest heart 
For that same gen'rous spirit smart ! 

May K 's far honour'd name 

Lang beet his hymeneal flame, 

Till H s at least a dizen, 

Are frae her nuptial labours risen : 
Five bonnie lasses round their table, 
And seven braw fellows, stout an' able 
To serre their king and country weel, 
By word, or pen, or pointed steel ! 
May health and peace, with mutual rays, 
Shine on the evening o' his days : 
Till his wee curlie John's ier-oe, 
When ebbing life nae mair shall flow, 
The last, sad, mournful rites bestow !" 

1 will not mind a lang conclusion, 
Wi' complimentary effusion ; 

But whilst your wishes and endeavours 
Are blest with Fortune's smiles and favours, 
I am, dear Sir, with zeal most fervent, 
Your much indebted humble servant. 

But if (which Pow'rs above prevent !) 
That iron- hearted carl, Want, 
Attended in his grim advances, 
By sad mistakes, and black mischances, 



While hopes, and joys, and pleasures fly him, 

Make you as poor a dog as I am, 

Your humble servant then no more ; 

For who would humbly serve the poor! 

But by a poor man's hopes in Heaven ! 

While recollection's power is given, 

If, in the vale of humble life, 

The victim sad of fortune's strife, 

I, thro' the tender gushing tear, 

Should recognize my master dear, 

If friendless low we meet together, 

Then, Sir, your hand — my friend and brother 



TO A LOUSE, 



Ha ! whare ye gaun, ye crowlin' ferlie ? 
Your impudence protects you sairly : 
I canna say but ye strunt rarely, 

Owre gauze and lace ; 
Tho' faith, I fear ye dine but sparely 

On sic a place. 

Ye ugly, creepin', blastit wonner, 
Detested, shunn'd by saunt an' sinner, 
How dare you set your fit upon her, 

Sae fine a lady ! 
Gae somewhere else and seek your dinneE, 

On some poor body. 

Swith, in some beggar's haffet squattle ; 
There ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattle 
Wi' ither kindred, jumpin' cattle, 

In shoals and nations : 
Whare horn nor bane ne'er dare unsettle 

Your thick plantations. 

Now haud you there, ye're out o' sight, 
Below the fatt'rils, snug an' tight; 
Na, faith ye yet ! ye'll no be right 

Till ye've got on it, 
The vera tapmost tow'ring height 

O' Miss's bonnet. 

My sooth ! right bauld ye set your nose ou' 
As plump and grey as onie grozet ; 

for some rank, mercurial rozet, 

Or fell, red smeddum, 
I'd gi'e you sic a hearty dose o't, 

Wad dress your droddum • 

1 wad na been surprised to spy 
You on an auld wife's flannen toy; 
Or aiblins some bit duddie boy, 

On's vvyliecoat ; 
But Miss's fine Lunardie ! fie, 
How dare ye 

O Jenny, dmna toss your head, 
An' set your beauties a' abread ! 
Ye little ken what cursed speed 

The blastie's makin' 



131 



Thae wink's nnifnger ends, I dread, 
Are notice takin' ! 

O wad some power the giftie gie us 

To see oursels as oUicrs see us I 

It wad frae niunie a blunder free us, 

And foolish notion : 
What airs in dress an' gait wad lea'e us, 

And ev*n Devotion ! 



ADDRESS TO EDINBURGH. 



Edina ! Scotia's darling seat ! 

All hail thy palaces and towers, 
Where once beneath a monarch's feet 

Sat legislation's sovereign powers ! 
From marking wildly -scatter'd flowers, 

As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd, 
And singing, lone, the lingering hours, 

I shelter in thy honour'd shade. 

IL 
Here wealth still swells the golden tide, 

As busy trade his labours plies ; 
There architecture's noble pride 

Bids elegance and splendour rise ; 
Here justice, from her native skies, 

High wields her balance and her rod ; 
There learning, with his eagle eyes, 

Seeks science in her coy abode. 

III. 

Thy sons, Edina, social, kind, 

With open arms the stranger bail ; 
Their views enlarged, their liberal mind, 

Above the narrow, rural vale; 
Attentive still to sorrow's wail, 

Or modest merit's silent claim ; 
And never may their sources fail ! 

And never envy blot their name. 

IV. 
Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn! 

Gay as the gilded summer sky, 
Sweet as the dewy milk-white thorn, 

Dear as the raptured thrill of joy ! 
Fair Burnet strikes th' adoring eye, 

Heav'n's beauties on my fancy shine : 
I see the sire of love on high, 

And own his work indeed divine ! 



There, watching high the least alarms, 

Thy rough rude fortress gleams afar: 
Like some bold veteran grey in arms, 

And mark'd with many a seamy scar : 
The pon'drous wall and massy bar, 

Grim-rising o'er the rugged rock : 
Have oft withstood assailing war, 

And oft repeli'd th' invader's shock. 



VI. 



With awe-struck thoughc and pitying tears, 

I view that noble, stately dome, 
Where Scotia's kings of other years, 

Famed heroes, had their royal home 
Alas! how changed the times to come! 

Their royal name low in the dust ; 
Their hapless race wild-wand'ring roam ! 

Tho'rigid law cries out, 'twas just ! 

VIL 
Wild beats my heart to trace your steps, 

Whose ancestors in days of yore, 
Thro' hostile ranks and ruin'd gaps 

Old Scotia's bloody lion bore : 
E'en / who sing in rustic lore, 

Haply my sires have left their shed, 
And faced grim danger's loudest roar, 

Bold following where your fathers led ! 

VIII. 
Edina ! Scotia's darling seat ! 

All hail thy palaces and tow'rs, 
Where once beneath a monarch's feet 

Sat legislation's sov'reign pow'rs ! 
From marking wildly scatter'd flowers, 

As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd, 
And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours, 

I sheltered in thy honour'd shade. 



EPISTLE TO J. LAPRAIK. 

AN OLD SCOTTISH BARD, APRIL 1st, 1785. 

While briers an" woodbines budding green, 
An' paitricks scraichin loud at e'en, 
An' morning poussie whiddin seen, 

Inspire my muse, 
This freedom in an unknown frien' 

I pray excuse. 

On fasten-een we had a rockin' 
To ca' the crack, and weave our stockin' ; 
And there was muckle fun and jokin', 

Ye need na doubt: 
At length we had a hearty yokin' 

At sang about. 

There was ae sang amang the rest, 
Aboon them a' it pleased me best, 
That some kind husband had addrest 

To some sweet wife : 
It thirl'd the heart-strings thro* the breast, 

A' to the life. 

I've scarce heard ought described sae weel, 
What gen'rous, manly bosoms feel ; 
Thought I, ' Can this be Pope, or Steele, 

Or Beattics wark?' 
They tald me 'twas an odd kind chiel 

About Muirkirk. 

It pat me fidgin-fain to hear't, 
And sae about him there I spiert, 
12 



r32 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Then a* that ken't him, round declared 
He had ingine, 

That nane excell'd it, few cam near't, 
It was sae fine. 

That set him to a pint of ale, 
An' either douce or merry tale, 
Or rhymes an' sangs he'd made himsel', 

Or witty catches, 
'Tween Inverness and Teviotdale, 

He had few matches. 

Then up I gat, an' swoor an aith, 
Tho' I should pawn my pleugh an' graith, 
Or die a cadger pownie's death, 

At some dyke back, 
A pint an' gill I'd gie them baith 

To hear your crack. 

But, first an' foremost, I should tell, 
Amaist as soon as I could spell, 
I to the crambo-jingle fell, 

Tho' rude an' rough, 
Yet crooning to a body's seP 

Does weel eneugh. 

I am na poet, in a sense, 
But just a rhymer, like, by chance, 
An' hae to learning nae pretence, 

Yet, what the matter ? 
Whene'er my muse does on me glance, 

I jingle at her. 

Your critic folk may cock their nose, 
And say, ' How can you e'er propose, 
You wha ken hardly verse frae prose, 
To mak a sang ?' 
But, by your leaves, my learned foes, 

Ye're may be wrang. 

What's a' your jargon o' your schools, 
Your Latin names for horns an' stools ; 
If honest nature made you fools, 

What sairs your grammai 
Ye'd better taen up spades and shools, 

Or knappin-hammers. 

A set o' dull conceited hashes, 
Confuse their brains in college classes ! 
They gang in stirks, and come out. asses, 

Plain truth to speak ; 
An* syne they think to ciimb Parnassus 

By dint o' Greek! 

Gie me ae spark o' Nature's fire ! 
That's a' the learning I desire ; 
Then tho' I drudge thro' dub am mire 

At pleugh or cart, 
My muse, though hamely in attire, 

May touch the heart. 

O for a spunk c Allan's glee, 
Oi Ferguson's, the bauld and slee, 
Or bright Lapraik's, my friend to be 
If I can hit it ! 



That would be lear eneugh for me I 
If I could get it. 

Now, Sir, if ye hae friends enow, 
Tho' real friends, I b'lieve, are few, 
Yet, if your catalogue be fou, 

I'se no insist, 
But gif ye want ae friend that's true, 

I'm on your list. 

I winna blaw about mysel ; 
As ill I like my faults to tell ; 
But friends, and folk that wish me well, 

They sometimes roose me 
Tho' I maun own, as monie still 

As far abuse me. 

There's ae wee faut they whyles lay to me, 
I like the lasses — Guid forgie me ! 
For monie a plack they wheedle frae me 

At dance or fair; 
May be some ither thing they gie me 

They weel can spare. 

But Mauchline race, or Mauchline fair, 
I should be proud to meet you there ; 
We'se gie ae night's discharge to care, 

If we forgather, 
An' hae a swap o' rhyming-ware 

Wi' ane anither. 

The four-gill chap, we'se gar him clatter, 
An' kirsen him wi' reekin' water; 
Syne we'll sit down an' tak our whitter, 

To cheer our heart ; 
An' faith, we'se be acquainted better 

Before we part. 

Awa, ye selfish warly race, 
Wha think that havins, sense, an' grace, 
Ev'n love and friendship should give place 

To catch the plack I 
I dinna like to see your face, 

Nor hear your crack. 

But ye whom social pleasure charms, 
Whose hearts the tide of kindness warms, 
Who hold your being on the terms, 

' Each aid the others, 
Come to my bowl, come to my arms, 

My friends, my brothers !*~ 

Bnt, to conclude my lang epistle, 
As my auld pen's worn to the grissle : % 

Twa lines frae you wad gar me fissle, 

Who am most fervent^ 
While I can either sing, or whissle, 

Your friend and servant*. 



TO THE SAME. 

april 21, 1785. 

While new ca'd kye rout at the stake, 
An' pownies reek in pleugh or brake, 
This hour on e'enin's edge I take, 

To own I'm debtor 
To honest-hearted auld Lapraik, 

For his kind letter. 

Forjesket sair, with weary legs, 
EatUin' the corn out-owre the rigs, 
Or dealing thro' amang the naigs 

Their ten hours bite, 
My awkart-muse sair pleads and begs, 

I would na write. 

The tapetless ramfeel'd hizzie, 
She's saft at best, and something lazy, 
Quo* she, • Ye ken ye've been sae busy 
This month an' mair, 
That trouth my head is grown right dizzie, 
An' something sair.' 

Her dowff excuses pat me mad ; 
' Conscience,' says I, 'ye thowless jad! 
I'll write, an' that a hearty blaud, 

This vera night ; 
So dinna ye affront your trade, 

But rhyme it right. 

« Shall bauld Lapraik, the king o' hearts, 
Tho' mankind were a pack o' cartes, 
Roose you sae weel for your deserts, 

In terms sae friendly, 
Yet ye'll neglect to shaw your parts, 

An' thank him kindly !' 

Sae I gat paper in a blink, 
An' down gaed stumpie in the ink : 
Quoth I, ' Before I sleep a wink, 

I vow I'll close it ; 
An' if ye winna mak' it clink, 

By Jove I'll prose it !' 

Sae I've begun to scrawl, but whether 
In rhyme, or prose, or baith tliegither, 
Or some hotch-potch that's rightly neither, 

Let time mak proof; 
But I shall scribble down some blether 

Just clean aff loof. 

My worthy friend, ne'er grudge an' carp, 
Tho' fortune use you hard an' sharp ; 
Come, kittle up your moorland harp 

Wi' gleesome touch ! 
Ne'er mind how Fortune waft and warp ; 

She's but a b-tch. 

She's gien me monie a jirt and fleg, 
Sin' I could striddle owre a rig ; 
But, by the L— d, tho' I should beg, 
Wi' lyart pow, 



111 laugh, an* sing, an' shake my leg, 
A s lang's I dow ! 

Now comes the sax and twentieth simmer, 
I've seen the bud upo' the timmer, 
Still persecuted by the limmer, 

Frae year to year ; 
But yet, despite the kittle kimmer, 
/, Bob, am here. 

Do ye envy the city Gent, 
Behint a kist to lie and sklent, 
Or purse-proud, big wi' cent, per cent. 
And muckle wame, 
In some bit brugh to represent 

A Bailie's name ? 

Or is't the paughty feudal thane, 
Wi* ruffled sark and glancin* cane, 
Wha thinks himself nae sheep-shank bane, 

But lordly stalks, 

While caps an' bonnets aff are taen, 

As by he walks ; 

' O Thou wha gies us each guid gift ! 
Gie me c wit and sense a lift, 
Then turn me if Thou please adrift 

Thro' Scotland wide : 
Wi' cits nor lairds I would not shift, 

In a' their pride !' 

Were this the charter of our state, 
' On pain o' hell be rich and great,' 
Damnation then would be our fate, 

Beyond remead ; 
But thanks to Heav'n ! that's no the gate 

We learn our creed. 

For thus the royal mandate ran, 
When first the human race began, 
• The social, friendly, honest man, 

Whate'er he be, 
'Tis be fulfils great Nature's plan, 

An' none but he ! 

O mandate glorious and divine ! 
The followers o' the ragged Nine, 
Poor glorious devils ! yet may shine 

In glorious light, 
While sordid sons of Mammon's line 
Are dark as night. 

Tho 1 here they scrape, an' squeeze, an 
growl, 
Their worthless nievefu' o' a soul 
May in some future carcase howl 

The forest's fright ; 
Or in some day-detesting owl 

May shun the light 

Then may Lapraik and Burns arise, 
To reach their native, kindred skies, 
And sing their pleasures, hopes, and joys, 

In some mild sphere, 
Still closer knit in friendship's ties, 
Each passing year 



BURNS' WORKS. 



TO W. S N, 



OCHILTREE. 



May 1785. 
I gat your letter, winsome Willie : 
Wi' gratefu 1 heart I thank you brawlie ; 
Tho' I maun say't I wad be silly, 
An' unco vain, 
Should I believe, my coaxin' billie, 

Your flatterim strain. 

But I'se believe ye kindly meant it, 
Isud be laith to think ye hinted 
Ironic satire sidelins sklented 

On my poor musie ; 
Tho* in sic phraisin' terms ye've penn'd it, 

I scarce excuse ye. 

My senses wad be in a creel, 
Should I but dare a hope to speel, 
Wi' Allan or wi' Gilhertfield, 

The braes of fame ; 
Or Fergusson the writer chiel, 

A deathless name. 

( O Fergusson ! thy glorious parts 
HI suited law's dry musty arts, 
My curse upon your whunstane hearts, 

Ye E'ribrugh Gentry ! 
The tithe o' what ye waste at cartes, 

Wad stovv'd his pantry !) 

Yet when a tale comes i' my head, 
Or lasses gie my heart a screed, 
As whyles they're like to be my dead, 

(O sad disease 
I kittle up my rustic reed ; 

It gies me ease. 

Auld Coila now may fldge fu'fain, 
She's gotten poets o' her ain, 
Chiels wha their chanters winna hain, 
But tune their lays, 
Till echoes all resound again 

Her weel sung praise. 

Nae poet thought her worth his while, 
To set her name in measured style ; 
She lay like some unkenned of isle 

Beside New-Holland, 
Or whare wild-meeting oceans boil 

Besouth Magellan. 

Ramsay an' famous Fergusson 
Gied Forth an' Tay a lift aboon ; 
Yarrow an' Tweed to monie a tune, 

Owre Scotland rings, 
While Irwin, Lugar, Ayr, an' Doon, 

Nae body sings. 

Th' Missus, Tiber, Thames, an' Seine, 
Glide sweet in monie a tunefu line ! 
But, Willie, set your fit to mine, 

An' cock your crest, 



We'll gar our streams and burnies shine 
Up wi' the best. 

We'll sing auld Coila's plains an' fells, 
Her moors red-brown wi' heather bells, 
Her banks an' braes, her dens an' dells, 

Where glorious Wallact 
Aft bure the gree, as story tells, 

Frae southren billies. 

At Wallace' name what Scottish blood 
But boils up in a spring-tide flood ! 
Oft have our fearless fathers strode 

By Wallace' side, 
Still pressing onward, red wat shod, 

Or glorious died. 

O sweet are Coila's haughs an' woods, 
When lintwhites chant among the buds, 
An' jinking hares, in amorous whids, 
Their loves enjoy, 
While thro' the braes the cushat croods 
With wailfu' cry ! 

Ev'n winter bleak has charms to me 
When winds rave thro' the naked tree , 
Or frost on hills of Ochiltree 

Are hoary grey ; 
Or blinding drifts wild-furious flee, 

Dark'ning the day . 

O Nature / a' thy shows an' forms 
To feeling, pensive hearts hae charms! 
Whether the summer kindly warms 
Wi' life an' light, 
Or winter howls in gusty storms, 

The lang, dark night ! 

The Muse, nae poet ever fand her, 

Till by himsel he learn'd to wander, 

Adown some trotting burn's meander 

An' no think lang. 

O sweet, to stray, an' pensive ponder 

A heartfelt sang ! 

The warly race may drudge and drive, 
Hog-shouther, jundie, stretch, an' strive, 
Let me fair Nature's face descrive, 

And I, wi' pleasure, 
Shall let the busy, grumbling hive 

Bum o'er their treasure. 

Fareweel, ' my rhyme-composing brither P 
We've been owre lang unkenn'd to ither, 
Now let us lay our heads thegither, 

In love fraternal : 
May Envy wallop in a tether, 

Black fiend, infernal ' 

While highlandmen hate tolls and taxes j 
While moorlan' herds like guid fat braxies; 
While terra firma on her axis 

Diurnal turns, 
Count on a friend, in faith and practice, 

In Robert Burns. 



POSTSCRIPT. 

My memory's no worth a preen ; 
t had amaist forgotten clean, 
Ye bade me write you what they mean 

By this new-light* 
Bout which our herds sae aft hae been 

Maist like to fight. 

In days when mankind were but callans 
At grammar, logic, an' sic talents, 
They took nae pains their speech to balance, 

Or rules to gi'e, 
But spak their thoughts in plain braid lallans, 
Like you or me. 

In thae auld times, they thought the moon, 
Just like a sark, or pair o' shoon, 
"Wore by degrees, till her last roon, 

Gaed past their viewing, 
An' shortly after she was done, 



Th< 



This past for certain, undisputed ; 
It ne'er cam i' their heads to doubt it, 
Till chiels gat up an' wad confute it, 
An' ca'd it wrang ; 
An' muckle din there was about it, 

Baith loud and lang. 

Some herds, weel learn'd upo' the beuk, 
Wad threap auld folk the thing misteuk ; 
For 'twas the auld moon turn'd a neuk, 

An' out o' sight, 
An' backlins coinin', to the leuk 

She grew mair bright. 

This was deny'd, it was afGrm'd ; 
The herds and hissels were alarm'd; 
The rev'rend grey- beards rav'd an' storm'd, 

That beardless laddies 
Should think they better were inform'd 

Than their auld daddies. 

Frae less to mair it gaed to sticks ; 
Frae words an' aiths to clours an' nicks ; 
An' monie a fallow gat his licks, 

Wi' hearty crunt ; 
An' some, to learn them for their tricks, 

Were hang'd an' brunt. 

This game was play'd in monie lands, 
An' auld light caddies bure sic hands, 
That faith, the youngsters took the sands 

Wi' nimble shanks, 
Till lairds forbade, by strict commands, 

Sic bluidy pranks. 

But new-light herds gat sic a cowe, 
Folk thought them ruin'd stick-an'-stowe, 
Till now amaist on ev'ry knowe, 

5fe*ll find ane plac'd •, 



MS. 135 

An' some, their new-light fair avow, 

Just quite barefac'd, 

Nae doubt the auld-light flocks are bleatin' ; 
Their zealous herds are vex'd an' sweatin'; 
Mysel, I've even seen them greetin' 
Wi' girnin' spite, 
To hear the moon sae sadly lie'd on 
By word an' write. 

But shortly they will cowe the louns ! 
Some auld-light herds in neebor towns 
Are mind't, in things they ca' balloons, 

To tak' a flight, 
An' stay a month amang the moons 

An' see them right. 

Guid observation they will gi'e them ; 
An' when the auld moon's gaun to lea'e them, 
The hindmost shaird, they'll fetch it wi' them, 

Just i' their pouch, 
An' when the new-light billies see them, 
I think they'll crouch ! 

Sae. ye observe that a' this clatter 
Is naething but a ' moonshine matter :' 
But tho' dull prose-folk Latin splatter 

In logic tulzie, 
I hope, we bardies ken some better 

Than mind sic brulzie. 



EPISTLE TO J. RANKINE, 

ENCLOSING SOME POEMS. 

O rough, rude, ready-witted Rankine, 
The wale o' cocks for fun and drinkin' ! 
There's mony godly folks are thinkin', 

Your dreams* an' tricks 
Will send you, Korah-like, a-sinkin', 

Straight to auld Nick's. 

Ye ha'e sae monie cracks an' cants 
And in your wicked, drucken rants, 
Ye mak 1 a devil o' the saunts, 

An' fill them fou ; 
And then their failings, flaws, an' wants, 

Are a' seen thro'. 

Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it ; 
That holy robe, O dinna tear it ! 
Spare't for their sakes wha aften wear it, 

The lads in black ! 
But your curst wit, when it comes near it, 

Rives't aff their back. 

Think, wicked sinner, wha ye're skaithing, 
It's just the blue-gown badge an' claithing 
O' saunts ; tak that, ye lea'e them naething 
To ken them by, 

is wes hea aiaking 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Frae ony unregenerare heathen 

Like you or I. 

I've sent you here some rhyming ware, 
A' that I bargain'd for an' mair ; 
Sae, when ye hae an hour to spare, 

I will expect 
Yon sang,* ye'll sen't wi' cannie care, 

And no neglect. 

Tho' faith, sma' heart hae 1 to sing ! 
My muse dow scarcely spread her wing! 
I've play'd mysel a bonnie spring, 

An' rianc'd my fill ! 
I'd better gaen arid sair'd the king 

At Bunker's Hill. 

'Twas ae night lately in my fun 
I gaed a roving wi' the gun, 
An' brought a paitrick to the grun, 

A bonnie hen, 
And, as the twilight was begun, 

Thought nane wad ken. 

The poor wee thing was little hurt; 
I straikit it a wee for sport, 
Ne'er thinkin' they wad fash me for't ; 

But, deil-ma care J 
Somebody tells the poacher- court » 

The hale affair 

Some auld us'd hands had ta-en a note, 
That sic a hen had got a shot ; 
I was suspected for the plot ; 

I scorn'd to lie ; 
So gat the whissle o' my groat, 

An' pay't the fee. 

But, by my gun, o' guns the wale, 
An' by my pouther an' my hail, 
An' by my hen, an' by her tail, 

I vow an' swear . 
The game shall pay o'er moor an' dale, 

For this, niest year. 

As soon's the clockin' time is by, 
An' the wee pouts begun to cry, 
Lord, I'se hae sportin' by an' by, 

For my gowd guinea : 
Tho' I should herd the buckskin kye 

For't in Virginia, 

Trowth, they had meikle for to blame ! 
Twas neither broken wing nor limb, 
But twa-three draps about the wame, 

Scarce thro' the feathers ; 
An' baith a yellow George to claim, 

An' thole their blethers ! 

It pits me aye as mad's a hare ; 
So I can rhyme nor write nae mair, 
But pennyworllLS again is fair, 

When time's expedient: 
Meanwhile I am, respected Sir, 

Your most obedient. 

* A song he had promised the Author 



JOHN BARLEYOORNf 



A BALLAD. 



I. 

There were three kings into the east, 
Three kings both great and high, 

An' they hae sworn a solemn oath 
John Barleycorn should die. 

II. 

They took a plough and plough'd him down, 

Put clods upon his head, 
And they hae sworn a solemn oath 

John Barleycorn was dead. 

III. 

But the cheerful spring came kindly on, 

And show'rs began to fall ; 
John Barleycorn got up again, 

And sore surpris'd them all. 

IV. 

The sultry suns of summer came, 
And he grew thick and strong, 

His head weel arm'd wi' pointed spears, 
That no one should him wrong. 



The sober autumn enter'd mild, 

When he grew wan and pale ; 
His bending joints and drooping head 

Show'd he began to fail. 

VI. 

His colour sicken'd more and more, 

He faded into age ; 
And then his enemies began 

To show their deadly rage. 

VII. 
They've ta'en a weapon long and sharp, 

And cut him by the knee ; 
Then ty'd him fast upon a cart, 

Like a rogue for forgerie. 

VIII. 

They laid him down upon his back, 

And cudgell'd him full sore ; 
They hung him up before the storm, 

And turn'd him o'er and o'er. 

IX. 

They filled up a darksome pit 

With water to the brim, 
They heaved in John Barleycorn, 

There let him sink or swim. 

X. 
They laid him out upon the floor, 

To work him farther woe, 
And still as signs of life appear'd, 

They toss'd him to and fro. 

XI. 
They wasted o'er a scorching flame, 
The marrow of his bones ; 
f This is part'y composed on the plan of an Old s 



But a miller used him worst of all, 

For he crush'd him between two stones. 

XII. 

And they hae ta'en his very heart's blood 
And drank it round and round ; 

And still the more and more they drank, 
Their joy did more abound. 

XIII. 

John Barleycorn was a hero bold, 

Of noble enterprise. 
For if you do but taste his blood, 

'Twill make your courage rise. 

XIV. 
Twill make a man forget his woe ; 

'Twill heighten all his joy : 
'Twill make the widow's heart to sing, 
Tho' the tear were in her eye. 

XV. 

Then let us toast John Barleycorn 

Each man a glass in hand ; 
And may his great posterity 

Ne'er fail in old Scotland ! 



A FRAGMENT. 

Tune—" Gillicrankie." 

When Guildford good our pilot stood, 

And did our helm thraw, man, 
Ae night, at tea, began a plea, 

Within America, man : 
Then up they gat the maskin-pat, 

And in the sea did jaw, man ; 
An' did nae less, in full congress, 

Than quite refuse our law, man. 

II. 

Then thro' the lakes Montgomery takes, 

I wat he was na slaw, man : 
Down Lowrie's burn he took a turn, 

And Carlelon did ca', man : 
But yet, what-reck, he, at Quebec, 

Montgomery-like did fa', man ; 
Wi' sword in hand, before his band, 

Amang his enemies a', man. 

III. 
Poor Tammy Gage, within a cage, 

Was kept at Boston ha\ man ; 
Till Willie Howe took o'er the knowe 

For Philadelphia, man : 
Wi' sword an' gun he thought a sin 

Guid Christian blood to draw, man ; 
But at New-York, wi' knife and fork, 

Sir- loin he hacked sma', man. 

IV. 
Burgoyne gaed up, like spur an' whip, 
Till Fraser brave did fa', man i 



Then lost his way, ae misty day, 

In Saratoga shaw, man. 
Cornwallis fought as lang's he dought. 

An* did the buckskins claw, mini ? 
But Clinloti's glaive frae rust to save 

He hung it to the wa', man. 

V. 

Then Montague, an' Guildford too, 

Began to fear a' fa', man ; 
And Sackville doure, wha stood the stoure, 

The German chief to thraw, man : 
For Paddy Burke, like onie Turk, 

Nae mercy had at a', man ; 
An' Chailie Fox threw by the box, 

An' lows'd his tinkler jaw, man. 

VI. 

Then Rockingham took up the game; 

Till death did on him ca', man ; 
When Shelburne meek held up his cheek, 

Conform to gospel law, man, 
Saint Stephen's boys, wi' jarring noise, 

They did his measures thraw, man, 
For North and Fox united stocks, 

And bore him to the wa', man. 

VII. 
Then clubs an' hearts were Charlie's carteg, 

He swept the stakes awa', man, 
Till the diamond's ace of Indian race, 

Led him a sair faux pas, man : 
The Saxon lads, wi' loud placads, 

On CltathanVs boy did ca', man ; 
And Scotland drew her pipe, an' blew, 

" Up, Willie, waur them a', man !" 

VIII. 
Behind the throne then Grenville's gone, 

A secret word or twa, man ; 
While slee Dundas arous'd the class 

Be-north the Roman wa', man : 
An' Chatham's wraith, in heavenly graitn, 

(Inspired bardies saw, man) 
Wi' kindling eyes, cry'd, " Willie, rise! 

Would I ha'e fear'd them a', man ?" 

IX. 

But word an' blow, North, Fox, and Co. 

Gowff'd Willie like a ba', man, 
Till Suihrons raise, and coost their claise 

Behind him in a raw, man ; 
An' Caledon threw by the drone, 

An' did her whittle draw, man ; 
An' swoor fu' rude, thro' dirt and blood 

To make it guid in law, man. 



SONG. 

" Corn Rig^j are Bonnie.** 
I. 



It was upon a Lammas night, 
When corn rigs are bonnie. 



138 

Beneath the moon's unclouded light, 

I held awa to Annie : 
The time flew by vvi' tentless heed, 

'Till tween the late and early, 
Wi' sma' persuasion she agreed, 

To see me thro' the barley. 

11. 
The sky was blue, the wind was still, 

The moon was shining clearly ; 
I set her down, wi' right good will 

Amang the rigs o* barley. 
I kent her heart was a' my ain ; 

I lov'd her most sincerely ; 
I kiss'd her owre and owre again 

Amang the rigs o' barley. 

III. 
I lock'd her in my fond embrace 

Her heart was beating rarely; 
My blessings on that happy place, 

Amang the rigs o' bailey ! 
But by the moon and stars so bright, 

That shone that hour so clearly ! 
She aye shall bless that happy night, 

Amang the rigs o' barley. 

IV. 
I hae been blythe wi' comrades dear ; 

I hae been merry ririnkin' ; 
I hae been joyf'u' gath'rin gear; 

I hae been happy thinkin' : 
But a' the pleasures e'er I saw, 

Tho' three times doubled fairly, 
That happy night was worth them a', 

Amang the rigs o' barley. 



Corn rigs an' barley rigs, 
An' corn rigs are bonnie ; 

111 ne'er forget that happy night, 
Amang the rigs wi' Annie. 



I. 

Now westlin' winds, and slaught'ring guns, 

Bring autumn's pleasant weather ; 
The moorcock springs, on whirring wings, 

Amang the blooming heather : 
Now waving grain, wide o'er the plain, 

Delights the weary farmer ; 
And the moon shines bright, when I rove at 
night, _ 

To muse upon my charmer. 

II. 
The partridge loves the fruitful fells: 
The plover loves the mountains : 



BURNS' WORKS. 



The woodcock haunts the lonely dells •, 
The soaring hern the fountains : 

Thro' lofty groves the cushat roves 
The path of man to shun it ; 

The hazel bush o'erhangs the thrush, 
The spreading thorn the linnet. 

III. 
Thus evry kind their pleasure find, 

The savage and the tender ; 
Some social join, and leagues combine ; 

Some solitary wander; 
Avaunt, away ! the cruel sway, 

Tyrannic man's dominion : 
The sportsman's joy, the murd'ring cry, 

The flutt'ring, gory pinion ! 

IV. 
But Peggy dear, the ev'ning's clear, 

Thick flies the skimming swallow ; 
The sky is blue, the fields in view, 

All fading-green and yellow : 
Come let us stray our gladsome way, 

And view the charms of nature : 
The rustling corn, the fruited thorn, 

And ev'ry happy creature. 



We'll gently walk, and sweetly talk, 

Till the silent moon shine clearly ; 
I'll grasp thy waist, and, fondly prest, 

Swear how I love thee dearly : 
Not vernal show'rs to budding flow'rs» 

Not autumn to the farmer, • 
So dear can be as thou to me, 

My fair, my lovely charmer ! 



I. 

Behind yon hills where Stinchar flow6, 
Mang moors an' mosses many, O, 

The wintry sun the day has clos'd, 
And I'll awa to Nannie, O. 

II. 

The westlin wind blaws loud an' shill ; 

The nighfs baith mirk and rainy, O 
But I'll get my plaid and out I'll steal, 

An' owre the hills to Nnnnie, O. 



My Nannie's charming, sweet, an' young 
Nae arttu' wiles to win ye, O ; 

May ill befa' the flattering tongue 
That wad beguile my Nannie, O 

IV. 
Her face is fair, her heart is true, 

As spotless as she's bonnie, O : 
The opening gowan, wet wi' dew, 

Nae purer is than Nannie, O. 



139 



A country lad is my degree, • 

An' few there be that ken me, O ; 

But what care I how few they be, 
I'm welcome aye to Nannie, O. 

VI. 
My riches a' 's my penny-fee, 

An' I maun guide it cannie, O ; 
But warl's gear ne'er troubles me, 

My thoughts are a' my Nannie, O. 

VII. 
Our auld Guidinan delights to view 

His sheep an' kye thrive bonnie, O ; 
But I'm as blithe that hands his pleugh, 

An' has nae care but Nannie, O. 

VIII. 
Come weel, come woe, I care na by, 

I'll take what Heaven will sen' me, O ; 
Nae ither care in life have I, 

But live, an' love my Nannie, O. 



GREEN GROW THE RASHES. 

A FRAGMENT. 



Green grow the rashes, O ! 

Green grow the rashes, O ! 
The sweetest hours that e'er I spend, 

Are spent amang the lasses, O ! 

I. 
There's nought but care on every ban', 

In every hour that passes, O ; 
What signifies the life o' man, 
An' 'twere na for the lasses, O. 

Green grow, &c. 

II. 

The warly race may riches cnase, 
An' riches still may fly them, O ; 

An' though at last they catch them fast, 
Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, O 
Green grow, &c 

III. 
But gie me a canny hour at e'en, 
My arms about my dearie, O ; 
An' warly cares, an' warly men, 
May a gae tapsalteerie, O. 

Green grow, &c. 

IV. 
For you so douse, ye sneer at this, 

Ye're nought but senseless asses, O j 
The wisest man the warld e'er saw, 
He dearlv loved the lasses, O. 

Green grow. &c. 



Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears 
Her noblest work she classes, O ; 

Her 'prentice ban' she tried on man, 
And then she made the lasses, O. 
Green grow, &c. 



Tune — " Juckie's Grey Breeto." 

I. 

Again rejoicing Nature sees 

Her robe assume its vernal hues, 

Her leafy locks wave in the breeze, 
All freshly steep'd in morning dews. 

CHORUS.* 

And maun I still on Menie t doat, 
And bear the scorn that's in her e'e ? 

For it's jet, jet black, and it's like a hawk, 
And it winna let a body be ! 

II. 

In vain to me the cowslips blaw, 
In vain to me the vi'lets spring ; 

In vain to me, in glen or shaw, 
The mavis and the lintwhite sing. 

And maun I still, &c. 

III. 

The merry ploughboy cheers his team, 
Wi' joy the tentie seedsman stalks, 

But life to me's a weary dream, 
A dream of ane that never wauks. 

And maun I still, &c. 

IV 
The wanton coot the water skims, 

Amang the reeds the ducklings cry, 
The stately swan majestic swims, 
And every thing is blest but I. 

And maun I still, &c. 

V. 

The shepherd steeks his faulding slap, 
And owre the moorlands whistle shill, 

Wi' wild, unequal, wandering step 
I meet him on the dewy hill. 

And maun I still, &c. 

VI. 
And when the lam, 'tween light and dark, 

Blithe waukens by the daisy's side, 
And mounts and sings on fluttering wings, 
A woe-worn ghaist I hameward glide. 
And maun I still, &c 



* This chorus is part of a song composed by a (fentla 
man in Edinburgh, ;i particular friend of the author's 
•t Menie is a common abbreviation of Mariamne 



140 



BURNS' WORKS. 



VII. 



Come, Winter, with thine angry howl, 
And raging bend the naked tree ; 

Thy gloom will soothe my cheerless soul, 
When nature all is sad like me ! 

CHORUS. 

And maun I still on Menie doat, 

And bear the scorn that's in her e'ef 

For it's jet, jet black, and it's like a hawk, 
An' it winna let a body be* 



Tune—" Koslin Castle." 

I. 

The gloomy night is gath'ring fast, 
Loud roars the wild inconstant blast, 
Yon murky cloud is foul wi' rain, 
I see it driving o'er the plain; 
The hunter now has left the moor, 
The scatter'd coveys meet secure, 
While here I wander prest wi' care, 
Along the lonely banks of Ayr. 

II. 

The Autumn mourns her ripening corn 
By early Winter's ravage torn ; 
Across her placid, azure sky, 
She sees the scowling tempest fly ; 
Chill runs my blood to hear it rave, 
J think upon the stormy wave, 
Where many a danger I must dare, 
Far from the bonnie banks of Ayr. 

III. 

Tis not the surging billow's roar, 
Tis not that fatal deadly shore . 
Tho' death in every shape appear, 
The wretched have no more to fear: 
But round my heart the ties are bound, 
That heart transpierced with many a wound ; 
These bleed afresh, those ties I tear 
To leave the bonnie banks of Ayr. 

IV. 

Farewell, old Coila's hills and dales, 
Her heathy moors and winding vales ; 
The scenes where wretched fancy roves, 
Pursuing past unhappy loves ! 
Farewell, my friends, farewell, my foes ! 
My peace with these, my love with those-— 
The bursting tears my heart declare, 
Farewell the bonnie banks of Ayr ! 



* We cannot presume to al ter any of the poems of our 
bard, and more especially those printed under his own 
direction ; yet it is to be regretted that this chorus, 
which is not his own composition, should be attached to 
tftese fine stanzas, as it perpetually interrupts the train 
of sentiment which they excite. 



SONG. 

Tune—" Gilderoy." 



From thee, Eliza, I must go, 

And from my native shore ; 
The cruel fates between us throw 

A boundless ocean's roar : 
But boundless oceans roaring wide, 

Between my love and me, 
They never, never can divide 

My heart and soul from thee. 

II. 

Farewell, farewell, Eliza dear, 

The maid that I adore I 
A boding voice is in mine ear, 

We part to meet no more ! 
But the last throb that leaves my heart, 

While death stands victor by, 
That throb, Eliza, is thy part, 

And thine that latest sigh ! 



THE FAREWELL, 



Tune—" Good night and Joy be wi* you a' J" 

I. 

Adieu ! a heart-warm, fond adieu 

Dear brothers of the mystic tie I 
Ye favour'd, ye enlighten , d few, 

Companions of my social joy j 
Tho' I to foreign lands must hie, 

Pursuing Fortune's slidd'ry ba', 
With melting heart, and brimful eye, 

I'll mind you still, tho' far awa'. 

II. 

Oft have I met your social band} 

And spent the cheerful festive night ; 
Oft honour'd with supreme command, 

Presided o'er the sons, of light ; 
And by that hieroglyphic bright, 

Which none but craftsmen ever saw I 
Strong mem'ry on my heart shall write 

Those happy scenes when far awa'. 

III. 

May freedom, harmony, and love, 

Unite you in the grand design, 
Beneath th' omniscient eye above, 

The glorious architect divine ! 
That you may keep th' unerring line, 

Still rising by the plummet's law, 
Till order bright completely shine, 

Shall be my pray'r when far awa'. 

IV. 
And you, farewell ! whose merits claim, 
Justly that highest badge to wear J 



Heaven bless your honoured, noble name, 
To masonry and Scotia dear I 

A last request, permit me here, 
When yearly ye assemble a', 

One round, I ask it with a tear, 
To him, the bard that's Jar awa' ! 



Tune — " Prepare, my dear Brethren, to the Tavern 
let's fly." 

I. 

No churchman am I for to rail and to write, 
No statesman nor soldier to plot or to fight, 
No sly man of business contriving a snare, 
For a big- bellied bottle's the whole of my care. 

II. 

The peer I don't envy, I give him his bow j 
I scorn not the peasant, tho' ever so low ; 
But a club of good fellows like those that are 

here, 
And a bottle like this, are my glory and care. 

IIL 
Here passes the squire on his brother — his 

horse ; 
There centum per centum, the cit with his 

purse ; 
But see you the crown, how it waves in the air, 
There, a big-belly'd bottle still eases my care. 

IV. 
The wife of my bosom, alas \ she did die ; 
For sweet consolation to church I did fly ; 
I found that old Solomon proved it fair, 
That a big-belly'd bottle's a cure for all care. 



I once was persuaded a venture to make ; 
A letter inform'd me that all was to wreck ; 
"But the pursy old landlord just waddl'd up stairs, 
With a glorious bottle that ended my cares. 

VI. 

' Life's cares they are comforts'* — a maxim 

laid down 
By the bard, what d'ye call him, that wore the 

black gown ; 
And faith I agree with th' old prig to a hair ; 
For a big-belly'd bottle's a heaven of care. 

[A Stanza added in a Mason Lodge.] 

Then fill up a bumper and make it o'erflow, 
And honours masonic prepare for to throw ; 
May every true brother of the compass and 

square 
Have a big-belly'd bottle when harass'd with 

care. 



i Young's Night Thoughts. 



141 



FRIARS CARSE HERMITAGE 



Thou whom chance may hither lead, 
Be thou clad in russet weed, 
Be thou deckt in silken stole, 
Grave these counsels on thy soul. 

Life is but a day at most, 
Sprung from night, in darkness lost ; 
Hope not sunshine every hour, 
Fear not clouds will always lower. 

As youth and love with sprightly dance. 
Beneath thy morning star advance, 
Pleasure with her siren air 
May delude the thoughtless pair ; 
Let prudence bless enjoyment's cup, 
Then raptur'd sip, and sip it up. 

As thy day grows warm and high. 
Life's meridian flaming nigh, 
Dost thou spurn the humble vale? 
Life's proud summits wouldst thou scale * 
Check thy climbing step, elate, 
Evils lurk in felon wait : 
Dangers, eagle -pinion'd, bold, 
Soar around each cliffy hold, 
While cheerful peace, with linnet song, 
Chants the lowly dells among. 

As the shades of ev'ning close, 
Beck'ning thee to long repose : 
As life itself becomes disease, 
Seek the chimney-neuk of ease. 
There ruminate with sober thought, 
On all thou'st seen, and heard, and wrought? 
And teach the sportive younkers round, 
Saws of experience, sage and sound. 
Say, man's true, genuine estimate, 
The grand criterion of his fate, 
Is not, Art thou high or low ? 
Did thy fortune ebb or flow ? 
Did many talents gild thy span ? 
Or frugal nature grudge the one ? 
Tell them, and press it on their mind, 
As thou thyself must shortly find, 
The smile or frown of awful Heav'n, 
To virtue or to vice is giv'n. 
Say, to be just, and kind, and wise, 
There solid self-enjoyment lies; 
That foolish, selfish, faithless ways, 
Lead to the wretched, vile, and base. 

Thus resign'd and quiet, creep 
To the bed of lasting sleep ; 
Sleep, whence thou shalt ne'er awake, 
Night where dawn shall never break, 
Till future life, future no more, 
To light and joy the good restore, 
To light and joy unknown before. 



142 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Stranger, go . Heav'n be thy guide ! 
Quod the beadsman of Nitb-side. 



BACRED TO THE MEMORY OF MRS OP —— 

Dweller in yon dungeon dark, 
Hangman of creation ! mark 
Who in widow-weeds appears, 
Laden with unhonoured years, 
Noosing with care a bursting purse, 
Baited with many a deadly curse ! 

STROPHE. 

View the wither'd beldam's face — 

Can thy keen inspection trace 

Aught of humanity's sweet melting grace ? 

Not that eye, 'tis rheum o'erflows, 

Pity's flood there never rose, 

See those hands, ne'er stretch'd to save, 

Hands that took — but never gave. 

Keeper of Mammon's iron chest, 

Lo, there she goes, unpitied, and unblest ; 

She goes, but not to realms of everlasting rest ! 

ANTISTROPHE. 

Plunderer of armies, lift thine eyes, 

(A while forbear, ye tort'ring fiends,) 

Seest thou whose step unwilling hither berids ? 

No fallen angel, hurl'd from upper skies ; 

'Tis thy trusty quondam mate, 

Doom'd to share thy fiery fate, 

She, tardy hell-ward plies. 



And are they of no more avail, 
Ten thousand glitt'ring pounds a-year ? 
In other worlds can Mammon fail, 
Omnipotent as he is here ? 
O, bitter mock'ry of the pompous bier, 
While down the wretched vital part is drivn ! 
The cave-lodg'd beggar, with a conscience 

clear, 
Expires in rags, unknown, and goes to Heav'n. 



CAPTAIN MATTHEW HENDERSON, 

a gentleman who held the patent for 
his honours immediately from almighty 
god! 



But now his radiant course is run, 
For Matthew's course was bright : 
His soul was like the glorious sun, 
A matchless Heav'nly light! 



O Death ! thou tyrant fell and bloody ; 
The meikle devil wi' a woodie 



Haurl thee hame to his black smiddie, 
O'er hurcheon hides, 

And like stock-fish come o'er his studdie 
Wi' thy auld sides ! 

He's gane, he's gane ! he's frae us torn, 
The ae best fellow e'er was bom ! 
Thee, Matthew, Nature's sel shall mourn 

By wood and wild, 
Where haply, Pity strays forlorn, 
Frae man exil'd. 

Ye hills, near neebors o' the starns, 
That proudly cock your cresting cairns ! 
Ye cliffs, the haunts of sailing yearns, 

Where echo slumbers ! 
Come join, ye Nature's sturdiest bairns, 

My wailing numbers I 

Mourn ilka grove the cushat kens . 
Ye haz'lly shaws and briery dens ! 
Ye burnies wimplin down your glens, 

Wi' toddlin din, 
Or foaming, Strang, wi' hasty stens, 

Frae lin to lin. 

Mourn little harebells o'er the lee ; 
Ye stately fox-gloves fair to see; 
Ye woodbines, hanging bonnilie 

In scented bow'rs ; 
Ye roses on your thorny tree, 

The first o' flow'rs. 

At dawn, when ev'ry grassy blade 
Droops with a diamond at his head, 
At ev'n, when beans their fragrance shed, 

I' th' rustling gale, 
Ye maukina whiddin thro' the glade, 
Come join my wail. 

Mourn ye wee songsters o' the wood; 
Ye grouse that crap the heather bud j 
Ye curlews calling thro' a clud ; 

Ye whistling plover; 
And mourn, ye whirring paitiick brood ; 

He's gane for ever ! 

Mourn, sooty coots, and speckled teals; 
Ye fisher herons, watching eels ; 
Ye duck and drake, wi' airy wheels 

Circling the lake ; 
Ye bitterns, till the quagmire reels, 

Rair for his sake. 

Mourn, clam'ring craiks at close o' day, 
'Mang fields o' flow'ring clover gay ; 
And when ye wing your annual way 

Frae our cauld shore, 
Tell thae far warlds, wha lies in clay, 

Wham we deplore. 

Ye houlets, frae your ivy bow^, 
In some auld tree, or eldritch tow'r, 
What time the moon, wi' silent glow'r, 
Sets up her horn, 



Wail thro' the dreary midnight hour 

Till waukrife morn ! 

O rivers, forests, hills, and plains ! 
Oft have ye heard my canty strains i 
But now, what else tor me remains 

But tales of woe ; 
An' frae my een the drapping rains 

Maun ever flow. 

Mourn, spring, thou darling of the year ! 
Ilk cowslip cup shall kep a tear : 
Thou, simmer, while each corny spear 
Shoots up its head, 
Thy gay, green, flow'ry tresses shear, 

For him that's dead ! 

Thou, autumn, wi' thy yellow hair, 
In grief thy sallow mantle tear ! 
Thou, winter, hurling thro' the air 

The roaring blast, 
Wide o'er the naked world declare 

The worth we've lost I 

Mourn him, thou sun, great source of light ! 
Mourn, empress of the silent night ! 
And you, ye twinkling starnies bright, 

My Matthew mourn ! 
For through your orbs he's ta'en his flight, 

Ne'er to return. 

O Henderson I the man, the brother ! 
And art thou gone, and gone for ever ! 
And hast thou cross'd that unknown river, 

Life's dreary bound ! 
Like thee, where shall I find another, 

The world around ! 

Go to your sculptur'd tombs, ye Great, 
In a' the tinsel trash o' state ! 
But by the honest turf I'll wait, 

Thou man of worth 
And weep the ae best fellow's fate 

E'er lay in earth. 



THE EPITAPH. 

Stop, passenger ! my story's brief; 

And truth I shall relate man : 
I tell nae common tale o' grief, 

For Matthew was a great man. 

If thou uncommon merit hast, 

Yet spurn'd at fortune's door, man ; 

A look of pity hither cast, 

For Matthew was a poor man. 

If thou a noble sodger art, 

That passest by this grave, man : 

There moulders here a gallant heart, 
For Matthew was a brave man. 

If thou on men, their works and ways, 
Canst throw uncommon light, man ; 



Here lies wha weel had won thy praise, 
For Matthew was a bright man. 

If thou at friendship's sacred ca', 
Wad life itself resign, man ; 

Thy sympathetic tear maun fa', 
For Matthew was a kind man. 

If thou art staunch without a stain, 
Like the unchanging blue, man, 

This was a kinsman o' thy ain, 
For Matthew was a true man. 

If thou hast wit, and fun, and fire, 
And ne'er guid wine did fear, man, 

This was thy billie, dam, and sire, 
For Matthew was a queer man. 

If ony whiggish whingin sot, 

To blame poor Matthew dare, man ; 
May dool and sorrow be his lot, 

For Matthew was a rare man 



LAMENT OF MARY QUEEN OS 
SCOTS, 

ON THE APPROACH OF SPRING. 

Now Nature hangs her mantle green 

On every blooming tree, 
And spreads her sheets o' daisies white 

Out o'er the grassy lea : 
Now Phoebus cheers the crystal streams, 

And glads the azure skies ; 
But nought can glad the weary wight 

That fast in durance lies. 

Now Liv'rocks wake the merry morn, 

Aloft on dewy wing ; 
The merle, in his noontide bow'r, 

Makes woodland echoes ring ; 
The mavis mild wi' many a note, 

Sings drowsy day to rest : 
In love and freedom they rejoice, 

Wi' care nor thrall opprest. 

Now blooms the lily by the bank, 

The primrose down the brae; 
The hawthorn's budding in the glen, 

And milk-white is the slae : 
The meanest hind in fair Scotland, 

May rove their sweets amang ; 
But I, the Queen of a' Scotland, 

Maun lie in prison Strang. 

I was the Queen o' bonnie France, 

Where happy I hae been ; 
Fu' lightly raise I in the morn, 

As blithe lay down at e'en : 
And I'm the sovereign of Scotland, 

And mony a traitor there ; 
Yet here I lie in foreign bands 

And never ending care. 



Hi 



BURNS' WORKS 



But as for thee, thou lake woman, 

My sister and my fae, 
Grim vengeance, yet, shall whet a sword 

That thro' thy soul shall gae : 
The weeping blood in woman's breast 

Was never known to thee ; 
Nor th' balm that draps on wounds of woe 

Frae woman's pitying e'e. 

My son ! my son ! may kinder stars 

Upon thy fortune shine : 
And may those pleasures gild thy reign, 

That neer wad blink on mine ! 
God keep thee frae thy mother's faes, 

Or turn their hearts to thee ; 
And where thou meet'st thy mother's friend, 

Remember him for me ! 

O ! soon, to me, may summer- suns 

Nae mair light up the morn ! 
Nae mair, to me, the autumn winds 

Wave o'er the yellow corn ! 
And in the narrow house o' death 

Let winter round me rave ; 
4nd the next flow'rs that deck the spring, 

Bloom on my peaceful grave. 



TO ROBERT GRAHAM, Esq. 

OF FINTRA. 

Late crippled of an arm, and now a leg, 
About to beg a pass for leave to beg ; 
Dull, listless, teas'd, dejected, and deprest, 
(Nature is adverse to a cripple's rest;) 
Will generous Graham list to his poet's wail? 
(It soothes poor misery, hearkening to her 

tale,) 
And hear him curse the light he first surveyed, 
And doubly curse the luckless rhyming trade ? 

Thou, Nature, partial Nature, I arraign; 
Of thy caprice maternal I complain. 
The lion and the bull thy care have found, 
One shakes the forest, and one spurns the 
ground : [shell, 

Thou giv'st the ass his hide, the snail his 
Th' envenom'd wasp, victorious, guards his cell. 
Thy minions, kings, defend, control, devour, 
In all th' omnipotence of rule and power. — 
Foxes and statesmen, subtile wiles ensure ; 
The cit and polecat stink, and are secure; 
Toads with their poison, doctors with their 
drug, [snug, 

The priest and hedge-hog in their robes are 
Ev'n silly woman has her warlike arts, [darts. 
Her tongue and eyes, her dreaded spear and 

But Oh ! thou bitter step-mother and hard, 
To thy poor, fenceless, naked child — the 

Bard! 
A thing unteachable in world's skill, 
And half an idiot too, more helpless still. 
No heels to bear him from the opening dun ; 
I\o claws to dig, his hated sight to shun ; 



No horns, but those by luckless Hymen wom> 
And those, alas ! not Amahhea's horn: 
No nerves olfactory, Mammon's trusty cur, 
Clad in rich dulness' comfortable fur, 
In naked feeling, and in aching pride, 
He bears th' unbroken blast from every side ; 
Vampyre booksellers drain him to the heart, 
And scorpion critics cureless venom dart. 

Critics— appall'd, I venture on the name, 
Those cut-throat bandits in the paths of fame 5 
Bloody dissectors, worse than ten Monroes ; 
He hacks to teach, they mangle to expose. 

His heart by causeless, wanton malice wrungj 
By blockheads' daring into madness stung ; 
His well- won bays, than life itself more dear, 
By miscreants torn, who ne'er one sprig must 

wear ; 
Foil'd, bleeding, tortur'd, in the unequal strife, 
The hapless poet flounders on through life, 
Till fled each hope that once his bosom fired, 
And fled each muse that glorious once inspired, 
Low sunk in squalid, unprotected age, 
Lead even resentment for his injured page, 
He heeds or feels no more the ruthless critic's 

rage ! 

So, by some hedge, the generous steed de- 
ceased, 
For half-starv'd snarling curs a dainty feast ; 
By toil and famine wore to skin and bone, 
Lies senseless of each tugging bitch-s son. 

O dulness ! portion of the truly blest ! 
Calm shelter'd haven of eternal rest ! 
Thy sons ne'er madden in the fierce extremes 
Of fortune's polar frost, or torrid beams. 
If mantling high she fills the golden cup, 
With sober selfish ease they sip it up ; [serve, 
Conscious the bounteous meed they well de- 
They only wonder, ' some folks' do not starve. 
The grave sage hern thus easy picks his frog, 
And thinks the mallard a sad worthless dog. 
When disappointment snaps the clue of hope, 
And thro' disastrous night they darkling grope, 
With deaf endurance sluggishly they bear, 
And just conclude ' that fools are fortune's 



-. _ shocks, 
the stupid 



care.' 
So, heavy, passive to the tempest 
Strong on the sign- post stands tin 

Not so the idle muses' mad-cap train, 
Not such the workings of their moon-struck 

brain ; 
In equanimity they never dwell, 
By turns in soaring heaven, or vaulted hell. 

I dread the fate, relentless and severe, 
With alia poet's, husband's, father's fear; 
Already one strong hold of hope is lost, 
Glencairn, the truly noble, lies in dust; 
(Fled, like the sun eclips'd as noon appears, 
And left us darkling in a world of tears :) 
O ! hear my ardent, grateful, selfish pray'r ! 
Fintra, my other stay, long bless and spare < 



Thro* a long life his hopes and wishes crown, 
A nd bright in cloudless skies his sun go down ! 
May bliss domestic smooth his private path ; 
Give energy to life ; and sooth his latest breath, 
With many a filial tear circling the bed of 
death ' 



LAMENT FOR JAMES, EARL OF 
GLEN CAIRN. 

The wind blew hollow frae the hills, 

By fits the sun's departing beam 
Look'd on the fading yellow woods 

That wav'd o'er Lugar's winding stream : 
Beneath a craigy steep, a bard, 

Laden with years and meikle pain, 
In loud lament bewail'd his lord. 

Whom death had all untimely ta'pn. 

He lean'd him to an ancient aik, 

Whose trunk was mouid'ring down with 
years ; 
His locks were bleached white \vi' time, 

His hoary cheek was wet wi' tears ! 
And as he touch'd his trembling harp, 

And as he tun'd his doleful sang, 
The winds, lamenting thro' their caves, 

To echo bore the notes alang. 

*' Ye scatter'd birds that faintly sing, 

The relics of the vernal quire ! 
Ye woods that shed on a' the winds 

The honours of the aged year ! 
A few short months, and glad and gay, 

Again ye'll charm the ear and e'e ; 
But nocht in all revolving time 

Can gladness bring again to me. 

" I am a bending aged tree, 

That long has stood the wind and rain ; 
But now has come a cruel blast, 

And my last hald of earth is gane: 
Nae leaf o' mine shall greet the spring, 

Nae simmer sun exalt my bloom ; 
But I maun lie before the storm, 

And ithers plant them in my room. 

" I've seen sae mony changefu' years, 

On earth I am a stranger grown j 
X wander in the ways of men, 

Alike unknowing and unknown : 
Unheard, unpitied, unreliev'd, 

I bear alane my lade o' care, 
For silent, low on beds of dust, 

Lie a' that would my sorrow share. 

" And last, (the sum of a' my griefs !) 

My noble master lies in clay ; 
The flow'r aniang our barons bold, 

His country's pride, his country's stay: 
In weary bting now I pine, 

For a' the life of life is dead, , 
And hope has left my aged ken, 

On forward wing for ever fled. 



MS. lib 

" Awake thy last sad vowe, my harp . 
The voice of woe and wild despair 
Awake, resound thy latest lay, 

Then sleep in silence evennair! 
And thou my last, best, only friend, 
: That fillest an untimely tomb, 
! Accept this tribute from the bard 

Thou brought from fortune's mirkest gloom. 

" In poverty's low barren vale ; 

Thick mists, obscure, involv'd me round ; 
Tho' oft I tum'd the wistful eye, 

Nae ray of fame was to be found : 
Thou found'st me like the morning sun 

That melts the fogs in limpid air, 
The friendless bard and rustic song, 

Became alike thy fostering care. 

" O ! Why has worth so short a date? 

While villains ripen grey with time ! 
Must thou, the noble, gen'rous, great, 

Fsll in bold manhood's hardy prime ! 
Why did I live to see that day? 

A day to me so full of woe ! 
O ! had I met the mortal shaft 

W hich laid my benefactor low ! 

" The bridegroom may forget the bride 

Was made his wedded wife yestreen ; 
The monarch may forget the crown 

That on his head an hour has been ; 
The mother may forget the child 

That smiles sae sweetly on her knee ; 
But I'll remember thee, Glencairn, 

And a' that thou hast done for me !" 



Thou, who thy honour as thy God rever'st, 
Who, save thy mind's reproach, nought earth- 
ly fear'st, 
To thee this votive offering I impart, 
'• The tearful tribute of a broken heart.'' 
The friend thou valued'st, I the patron lov'd ; 
His worth, his honour, all the world approv'd. 
We'll mourn till we too go as he is gone, 
And tread the dreary path to that dark world 
unknown. 



TAM O'SHANTER: 

A TALE. 



When chapman billies leave the street, 
And droit thy neebors. neehors meet, 



146 



BURNS' WORKS. 



As market-days are wearing late, 
An' folk begin to tak the gate ; 
While we sit bousing at the nappy, 
An' gettin' fou and unco happy, 
We think na on the lang Scots miles, 
The mosses, waters, slaps, and styles, 
That lie between us and our hame, 
Whare sits our sulky sullen dame, 
Gathering her brows like gathering storm, 
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm. 

This truth fand honest Tarn o' Shunter, 
As he frae Ayr ae night did canter, 
(Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses, 
For honest men and bonny lasses.) 

O Tarn ! had'st thou but been sae wise, 
As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice ! 
She tauld thee weel thou was a skeUum, 
A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum ; 
That frae November till October, 
Ae market-day thou was na sober ; 
That ilka melder, wi' the miller, 
Thou sat as lang as thou had siller ; 
That ev'ry naig was ca'd a shoe on, 
The smith and thee gat roaring fou on ; 
That at the L — d's house, ev'n on Sunday, 
Thou drank wi" Kirkton Jean till Monday. 
She prophesy'd, that late or soon, 
Thou would be found deep drown'd in Doon, 
Or catch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk, 
By Alloway's auld haunted kirk. 

Ah, gentle dames ! it gars me greet, 
To think how mony counsels sweet, 
How mony lengthen'd sage advices, 
The husband frae the wife despises ! 

But to our tale : Ae market night, 
Tarn had got planted unco right ; 
Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely, 
Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely : 
And at his elbow, souter Johnny, 
His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony ; 
Tarn lo'ed him like a vera brither ; 
They had been fou for weeks thegither. 
The night drave on wi' sangs an' clatter; 
And aye the ale was growing better : 
The landlady and Tarn grew gracious, 
Wi' favours, secret, sweet, and precious ; 
The souter tauld his queerest stories ; 
The landlord's laugh was ready chorus : 
The storm without might rair and rustle, 
Tain did na mind the storm a whistle. 

Care, mad to see a man sae happy, 
E'en drown'd himself amang the nappy ; 
As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure, 
The minutes wing'd their way wi' pli 
Sings may be blest, but Tarn wa 
O'er a' the ills o' life victorious ! 

But pleasures are like poppies spread, 
You seize the fiow'r, its bloom is shed ! 
Or like the snow-falls in the river, 
A moment white — then melts for ever : 



Or like the borealis race, 

That flit ere you can point their place ; 

Or like the rainbow's lovely form 

Evanishing amid the storm. — 

Nae man can tether time or tide : 

The hour approaches 7am maun ride ; 

That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane, 

That dreary hour he mounts his beast in, 

And sic a night he taks the road in, 

As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in. 

The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last ; 
The rattlin' showers rose on the blast : 
The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd , 
Loud, deep, and lang, the thunder bellow'd , 
That night a child might understand, 
The deil had business on his hand. 

Weel mounted on his grey mare, Meg — 
A better never lifted leg — 
7am skelpit on thro' dub and mire, 
Despising wind, and rain and fire ; 
Whiles holding fast his guid blue bonnet ; 
Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet ; 
Whiles glow'ring round wi' prudent cares, 
Lest bogles catch him anawares ; 
Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh, 
Whare ghaists and houlets nightly cry — 

By this time he was cross the ford, 
Whare in the snaw the chapman smoor'd ; 
And past the birks and meikle stane, 
Whare drunken Charlie brak 's neck bane 
And thro' the whins, and by the cairn, 
Whare hunters fand the murder'd bairn ; 
And near the thorn, aboon the well, 
Whare Mungo's mither hang'd hersel. — 
Before him Doon pours all his floods ; 
The doubling storm roars thro' the woods j 
The lightnings flash from pole to pole ; 
Near and more near the thunders roll ; 
When glimmering thro' the groaning trees, 
Kirk Alloway seem'd in a bleeze ; 
Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing 
And loud resounded mirth and dancing — 

Inspiring bold John Barleycorn ! 
What dangers thou canst make us scorn J 
Wi' tippenny, we fear nae evil ; 
Wi' usquebae we'll face the devil. — 
The swats sae ream'd in Tammie's noddle, 
Fair play, he cared na deils a boddle. 
But Maggie stood right sair astonish'd, 
Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd, 
She ventured forward on the light; 
And, vow ! 7am saw an unco sight I 
Warlocks and witches in a dance ; 
Nae cotillon brent new frae France, 
But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels, 
Put life and mettle in their heels. 
A winnock-bunker in the east, 
There sat auld Nick in shape o' beast ; 
A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large, 
To gie them music was his charge : 
He screw'd his pipes and gart them skirl, 
Till roof and rafters a' did dirl. — 



Coffins stood round like open presses, 
That shaw'd the dead in their last dresses ; 
And by some devilish cantrip slight, 
Each in its cauld hand held a light,— 
By which heroic 7am was able 
To note upon the haly table, 
A murderer's banes in gibbet aims ; 
Twa span-lang, wee unchristen'd bairns : 
A thief new-cutted frae a rape, 
Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape : 
Five tomahawks, wi' blude red-rusted ; 
Five scimitars wi' murder crusted ; 
A garter which a babe had strangle j 
A knife, a father's throat had mangled, 
Whom his ain son o' life bereft, 
The gray hairs yet stuck to the heft; 
Wi' mair o' horrible and awf'u' 
Which ev'n to name wad be unlawfu'. 

As Tammie glowr'd, amaz'd and curious 
The mirth and fun grew fast and furious : 
The piper loud and louder blew ; 
The dancers quick and quicker flew ; 
They reel'd, tbey set, they cross'd, they 

cleekit, 
Till ilka carlin swat and reekit, 
And coost her duddies to the wark, 
And linket at it in her sark ! 

Now Tarn, O Tarn I had they been queen3 
A' plump an' strapping, in their teens ; 
Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flannen, 
Been snaw-white seventeen bunder linen ! 
Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair, 
That ance were plush o' guid blue hair, 
I wad hae gi'en them aff my hurdies ! 
For ae blink o' the bonnie burdies ! 

But wither'd beldams auld and droll, 
Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal, 
Lowping and flinging on a crummock, 
I wonder didna turn thy stomach. 

But 7am kenn'd what was what fu' brawlie, 
There was ae winsome wench and walie, 
That night enlisted in the core, 
(Lang after kenn'd on Carrick shore ! 
For mony a beast to dead she shot, 
And perish'd mony a bonnie boat, 
And shook baith meikle corn and bear, 
And kept the country side in fear,) 
Her cutty sark o' Paisley ham, 
That while a lassie she had worn, 
In longitude though sorely scanty, 
It was her best, and she was vauntie,— 
Ah ! little kenn'd thy reverend grannie, 
That sark she cooft for her wee Nannie, 
Wi' twa pund Scots, ('twas a' her riches,) 
Wad ever grac'd a dance of witches ! 

Hut here my muse her wing maun cour* 
Sic flights are far beyond her pow'r : 
To sing how Nannie lap and flang, 
(A souple jade she was and Strang) 
And how Tarn stood, like ane bewitch'd, 
And thought his very een enrich'd ; 



Even Satan glowr'd and fidg'd fu' fain, 
And hotch'd and blew wi' might and main . 
Till first ae caper, syne anither, 
Tarn tint his reason a' thegither, 
And roars out, " Weel done, Cutty sark 1" 
And in an instant all was dark ; 
And scarcely had he Maggie rallied, 
When out the hellish legion sallied. 

As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke, 
When plundering herds assail their byke j 
As open pussie's mortal foes, 
When, pop ! she starts before their nose ; 
As eager runs the market crowd, 
When " Catch the thief !" resounds aloud ; 
So Maggie runs, the witches follow, 
Wi* monie an eldritch screech and hollovr. 

Ah, 7am / Ah, 7am / thou'll get tny fairin, 
In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin ! 
In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin I 
Kate soon will be a woefu' woman ! 
Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg, 
And win the key-stane * of the brig ; 
There at them thou thy tail may toss, 
A running stream they dare na cross. 
But ere the key-stane she could make, 
The fient a tale she had to shake ! 
For Nannie, far before the rest, 
Hard upon noble Maggie prest, 
And flew at Tarn wi> furious ettle ; 
But little wist she Maggie's mettle — 
Ae spring brought aff her master hale, 
But left behind her ain grey tail : 
The carlin claught her by the rump, 
And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. 

Now, wha this tale o* truth shall read, 
Ilk man and mother's son take heed : 
Whene'er to drink you are inclin'd, 
Or cutty-sarks run in your mind, 
Think ye may buy the joys o'er dear, 
Remember Tarn o' Shanter's mare. 



ON SEEING A WOUNDED HARE 
LIMP BY ME, 

WHICH A FELLOW HAD JUST SHOT AT 

Inhuman man ! curse on thy barb'rous art, 
And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye : 
May never pity soothe thee with a sigh, 

Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart ! 

Go live, poor wanderer of the wood and field, 
The bitter little that of life remains : 



It is a well known fact, that witches, or any evil 
ts, have no power to follow a pour wight any farther 
than the middle of the next running stream. — It may 
be proper likewise to mention to the benighted travel- 
ler, that when he falls in with bogles, whatever danger 
may be in his going forward, there is much more hazard 
in turning back. 

K 2 



148 



BURNS' WORKS. 



No more the thickening brakes and verdant 
plains, 
To thee shall home, or food, or pastime yield. 

Seek, mangled wretch, some place of wonted 
rest, 
No more of rest, but now thy dying bed ! 
The sheltering rushes whistling o'er thy 
head, 
The cold earth with thy bloody bosom prest. 

Oft as by winding Nith, I musing wait 
The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn, 
I'll miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawn, 

And curse the ruffian's aim, and mourn thy 
hapless fate. 



ADDRESS TO THE SHADE OF 
THOMSON, 



While virgin Spring, by Eden's flood, 
Unfolds her tender mantle green, 

Or pranks the sod in frolic mood, 
Or tunes Eolian strains between : 

While Summer, with a matron grace, 
Retreats to Dryburgh's cooling shade, 

Yet oft, delighted, stops to trace 
The progress of the spiky blade s 

While Autumn, benefactor kind, 

By Tweed erects his aged head, 
And sees, with self-approving mind, 

Each creature on his bounty fed : 

While maniac Winter rages o'er 
The hills whence classic Yarrow flows, 

Rousing the turbid torrent's roar, 

Or sweeping, wild, a waste of snows : 

So long, sweet Poet of the year, 

Shall bloom that wreath thou well hast won ; 
While Scotia, with exulting tear, 

Proclaims that Thomson was her son. 



EPITAPHS. 



ON A CELEBRATED RULING 
ELDER. 



Hebe souter John in death does 
To hell, if he's gane thither, 

Satan, gie him thy gear to keep, 
He'll baud it weel thegither. 



sleep j 



on a noisy polemic; 

Below thir stanes lie Jamie's banes : 

O Death, its my opinion, 
Thou ne'er took such a bleth'rin bitol* 

Into thy dark dominion ! 



ON WEE JOHNNY. 

Hicjacet wee Johnny. 

Whoe'ek thou art, O reader, know, 
That death has murder'd Johnny, 

An' here his body lies fu' low — 
For saul, be ne'er had ony. 



FOR THE AUTHOR'S FATHER. 

O ye whose cheek the tear of pity stains, 
Draw near with pious rev'rence and attend ! 

Here lie the loving husband's dear remains, 
The tender father and the gen'rous friend. 

The pitying heart that felt for human woe ; 
The dauntless heart that fear'd no human 
pride ; 
The friend of man, to vice alone a foe j 

" For ev'n his failings leaned to virtue's 
side.*" 



FOR R. A. Esq. 

Know tbou, O stranger to the fame 
Of this much lov'd, much honour'd name t 
(For none that knew him need be told) 
A warmer heart death ne'er made cold. 



FOR G. H. Esq. 

The poor man weeps — nere G n sleep6, 

Whom canting wretches blam'd : 

But with such as he, where'er he be, 
May I be saved or a 



A BARD'S EPITAPH. 

Is there a whim-inspired fool, 
Owre fast for thought, ow 7 re hot for rule, 
Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool,. 

Let him draw near ; 
And owre this grassy heap sing dool, 
And drap a tear. 

Is there a bard of rustic song, 
Who, noteless, steals the crowds among, 



That weekly this area throng, 

O, pass not by ! 

But, with a frater-feeling strong, 

Here heave a sigh. 

Is there a man, whose judgment clear, 
Can others teach the course to steer, 
Yet runs, himself, life's mad career, 

Wild as the wave ; 
Here pause — and, through the starting tear, 

Survey this grave. 

The poor inhabitant below, 
Was quick to learn and wise to know, 
And keenly felt the friendly glow, 

And softer flame, 
But thoughtless follies laid him low, 

And stain'd his name ! 

Reader, attend— whether thy soul 

Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole, 

Or darkly grubs this earthly hole, 

In low pursuit ; 

Know, prudent, cautious, self-control, 

Is wisdom's root. 



ON THE LATE CAPTAIN GROSE'S 

PEREGRINATIONS THROUGH SCOTLAND, 
COLLECTING THE ANTIQUITIES OF THAT KINGDOM. 

Hear, "Land o' Cakes, and brither Scots, 
Frae Maidenkirk to Johnny Groat's j 
If there's a hole in a' your coats, 

I rede you tent it : 
A chield'samangyou, taking notes, 

And, faith, he'll prent it. 

If in your bounds ye chance to light 
Upon a fine, fat fodgel wight, 
O' stature short, but genius bright, 

That's he, mark weel — 
And vow ! he has an unco slight 

O' cauk and keel. 

By some auld, houlet-haunted biggin,* 
Or kirk, deserted by its riggin, 
It's ten to ane ye'll find him snug in 

Some eldritch part, 
Wi' deils, they say, L — d safe's ! colleaguin' 

At some black art- 
Ilk ghaist that haunts auld ha' or chamer, 
Ye gipsy-gang that deal in glamor, 
And you deep-read in hell's black grammar, 

Warlocks and witches ; 
Ye'll quake at his conjuring hammer, 

Ye midnight bitches. 

It's tauld he was a sodger bred, 
And ane wad rather fa'n than fled : 



But now he's quat ;he sportle blade, 

And dog-skin wallet, 

And ta'en the — Antiquarian trade. 

I think they call it. 

He has a fouth o' auld nick nackets : 
Rusty aim caps and jinglin' jackets,* 
Wad haud the Lothians three in tackets, 

A towmont guid : 
And parritch-pats, and auld saut-backetB, 

Before the Flood. 

Of Eve's first fire he has a cinder : 

Auld Tubal Cain's fire-shool and fender; 

That which distinguished the gender 

O' Balaam's ass ; 

A broom-stick o' the witch of Endor, 

Weel shod wi' brass. 

Forbye he'll shape you aff, fu' gleg, 
The cut of Adam's philibeg : 
The knife that nicket Abel's craig, 

He'll prove you fully, 
It was a faulding jocteleg, 

Or lang-kail gullie. — 

But wad ye see him in his glee, 
For meikle glee and fun has he, 
Then sit him down, and twa or three 

Guid fellows wi' him ; 
And port, O port I shine thou a wee, 

And then ye'll see him ! 

Now, by the pow'rs o' verse and prose ! 
Thou art a dainty chiel, O Grose ! — 
Whae'er o' thee shall ill suppose, 

They sair misca' thee ; 
I'd take the rascal by the nose, 

Wad say, Shame fa' thee ! 



TO MISS CRUIKSHANKS, 

A VERY YOUNG LADY, WRITTEN ON THE BLANK 
LEAF OF A BOOK, PRESENTED TO HER BY 
THE AUTHOR. 

Beauteous rose-bud, young and gay, 
Blooming on thy early May, 
Never may'st thou, lovely fiow'r, 
Chilly shrink in sleety show'r! 
Never Boreas' hoary path, 
Never Eurus' pois'nous breath, 
Never baleful stellar lights, 
Taint thee with untimely blights! 
Never, never reptile thief 
Riot on thy virgin leaf! 
Nor ever Sol too fiercely view 
Thy bosom blushing still with dew! 

May'st thou long, sweet crimson gem, 
Richly deck thy native stem ; 



* Vide his Antiquities of Scotland 



* Vide his treatise on Ancient Armour and Weapon^ 



ioi) 

Till some ev'ning, sober, caim, 
Dropping dews, and breathing balm, 
While all around the woodland rings, 
And ev'ry bird thy requiem sings ; 
Thou, amid the dirgeful sound, 
Shed thy dying honours round, 
And resign to parent earth 
The loveliest form she e'er gave birth. 



SONG. 

Anna, thy charms my bosom fire, 
And waste my soul with care ; 

But, ah ! how bootless to admire, 
When fated to despair ! 

Yet in thy presence, lovely Fair, 
To hope may be forgiv'n ; 

For sure 'twere impious to despair, 
So much in sight of Heav'n. 



ON READING, IN A NEWSPAPER, 

THE DEATH OF JOHN M'LEOD, Esq. 



Sad thy tale, thou idle page, 

And rueful thy alarms: 
Death tears the brother of her love 

From Isabella's arms. 

Sweetly deck'd with pearl dew 
The morning rose may blow ; 

But cold successive noontide blasts 
May lay its beauties low. 

Fair on Isabella's morn 
The sun propitious smil'd ; 

But long ere noon, succeeding clouds 
Succeeding hopes beguil'd. 

Fate oft tears the bosom chords 

That nature finest strung : 
So Isabella's heart was form'd, 

And so that heart was rung. 

Dread Omnipotence, alone. 
Can heal the wound he gave ; 

Can point the brimful grief-worn eyes 
To scenes beyond the grave. 

Virtuous blossoms there shall blow, 
And fear no withering blast ; 

There Isabella's spotless worth 
Shall happy be at last. 



BURNS WORKS. 



HUMBLE PETITION OF BRUAR 
WATER.* 

TO THE NOBLE DUKE OF ATHOLE. 

My Lord, I know youi noble ear 

Woe ne'er assails in vain ; 
Embolden'd thus, I beg you'll hear 

Your humble slave complain, 
How saucy Phoebus' scorching beams, 

In flaming summer-pride, 
Dry-withering, waste my foaming streams,, 

And drink my crystal tide. 

The lightly jumping glowrin trouts, 

That thro' my waters play, 
If, in their random, wanton spouts, 

They near the margin stray; 
If, hapless chance ! they linger lang, 

I'm 8corching up so shallow, 
They're left the whitening stanes amang, 

In gasping death to wallow. 

Last day I grat, wi' spite and teen, 

As poet B came by, 

That, to a bard I should be seen, 

Wi' half my channel dry ; 
A panegyric rhyme, I ween, 

Even as I was he shor'd me : 
But had I in my glory been, ' 

He, kneeling, wad ador'd me. 

Here, foaming down the shelvy rocks, 

In twisting strength I rin ; 
There, high my boiling torrent smokes, 

Wild-roaring o'er a linn : 
Enjoying large each spring and well 

As nature gave them me, 
I am, although I say't mysel, 

Worth guun a mile to see. 

Would then my noble master please 

To grant my highest wishes, 
He'll shade my banks wi' tow'ring trees, 

And bonnie spreading bushes ; 
Delighted doubly then, my Lord, 

You'll wander on my banks, 
And listen mony a grateful bird 

Return you tuneful thanks. 

The sober laverock warbling wild, 

Shall to the skies aspire ; 
The gowdspink, music's gayest child, 

Shall sweetly join the choir : 
The blackbird strong, the lintwhite clear, 

The mavis wild and mellow; 
The robin pensive autumn cheer, 

In all her locks of yellow ; 

This too, a covert shall insure, 
To shield them from the storm ; 



it of trees and Miruks. 



151 



And coward maukin sleep secure, 

Low in her grassy form ; 
Here shall the shepherd make his seat, 

To weave his crown or flowers ; 
Or find a sheltering safe retreat, 

From prone descending showers. 

And here, by sweet endearing stealth, 

Shall meet the loving pair, 
Despising worlds with all their wealth 

As empty idle care : 
The flow'rs shall vie in all their charms 

The hour of heav'n to grace, 
And birks extend their fragrant arms 

To screen the dear embrace. 

Here, baply too, at vernal dawn, 

Some musing hard may stray, 
And eye the smoking, dewy lawn, 

And misty mountain, grey ; 
Or, by the reaper's nightly beam, 

Mild chequering thro' the trees, 
Have to my darkly dashing stream, 

Hoarse-swelling on the breeze. 

Let lofty firs, and ashes coo', 

My lowly banks o'erspread, 
And view, deep-bending in the pool, 

Their shadows' watery bed ! 
Let fragrant birks in woodbines drest, 

My craggy cliffs adorn ; 
And, for the little songster's nest, 

The close embow'ring thorn. 

So may old Scotia's darling hope, 

Your little angel band, 
Spring, like their fathers, up to prop 

Their honour'd native land 1 
So may thro' Albion's farthest ken, 

To social flowing glasses, 
The grace be — " Athole's honest men, 

And Athole's bonnie lasses!'* 



ON SCARING SOME WATER-FOWL, 

IN LOCH-TURIT ; 
A WILD SCENE AMONG THE HILLS OF OCHTERTYRE. 

Why, ye tenants of the lake, 
For me your watery haunt forsake ? 
Tell me, fellow-creatures, why 
At my presence thus you fly? 
Why disturb your social joys, 
Parent, filial, kindred ties? — 
Common friend to you and me, 
Nature's gifts to all are free : 
Peaceful keep your dimpling wave, 
Busy food, or wanton lave ; 
Or, beneath the sheltering rock, 
Bide the surging billow's shock. 

Conscious, blushing for our race, 
Soon, too soon, your fears I trace. 



Man, your proud, usurping foe, 
Would be lord of all below ; 
Plumes himself in Freedom's pride, 
Tyrant stern to all beside. 

The eagle, from the cliffy brow, 
Marking you his prey below, 
In his breast no pity dwells, 
Strong necessity compels. 
But man, to whom alone is giv'n 
A ray direct from pitying heav'n, 
Glorious in his heart humane — 
And creatures for his pleasure slain. 

In these savage, liquid plains, 
Only known to wand'ring swains, 
Where the mossy riv'let strays ; 
Far from human haunts and ways; 
All on nature you depend, 
And life's poor season peaceful spend. 

Or, if man's superior might, 
Dare invade your native right, 
On the lofty ether borne, 
Man with all his pow'rs you scorn ; 
Swiftly seek, on clanging wings, 
Other lakes and other springs ; 
And the foe you cannot brave, 
Scorn at least to be his slave. 



WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL 

OA'ER THE CHIMNEY-PIECE IN THE PARLOUB OP 
THE INN AT KENMOKE. TAYMOUTH. 

Admiring Nature in her wildest grace, 
These northern scenes with weary feet I trace ; 
O'er many a winding dale and painful steep, 
T h' abodes of covey'd grouse and timid sheep, 
My savage journey, curious, I pursue, 
Till fam'd Breadalbane opens to my view — . 
The meeting cliffs each deep-sunk glen di- 
vides, 
The woods, wild-scatter'd, clothe their ample 

sides, 
Ah' outstretching lake, embosonvd 'mong the 

hills, 
The eye with wonder and amazement fills* 
The Tay meand'ring sweet in infant pride, 
The palace rising on his verdant sides, [taste ; 
The lawns wood-fringed in Nature's native 
The hillocks dropt in Nature's careless haste ! 
The arches striding o'er the new-born stream ; 
The village, glittering in the moontide beam- 



Poetic ardours in my bosom swell, 
Lone wandering by the hermit's mossy cell : 
The sweeping theatre of hanging woods ; 
The incessant roar of headlong tumbling 
floods — 



Here Poesy might wake her heav'n-taught lyre, 
And look through nature with creative lire; 



152, 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Here, to the wrongs of fate half reconeil'd, 
Misfortune's lighten'd steps might wandei 

wild; 
And Disappointment, in these lonely bounds, 
Find balm to sootli her bitter rankling wounds : 
Here heart-struck Grief might heaven-ward 

stretch her scan, 
And injur'd Worth forget and pardon man. 



WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL, 



Among the heathy hills and ragged woods 
The roaring Fyers pours his mossy floods ; 
Till full he dashes on the rocky mounds, 
Where, thro' a shapeless breach, his stream 
resounds. 

As high in air the bursting torrents flow, 
As deep recoiling surges foam below, 
Prone down the rock the whitening shoot de- 
scends, 
And viewless echo's ear, astonish'd, rends. 
Dim-seen, through rising mists, and ceaseless 

showers, 
The hoary cavern, wide-surrounding, lowers. 
Still thro' the gap the struggling river toils, 
And still below, the horrid caldron boils — 



ON THE BIRTH OF A 

POSTHUMOUS CHILD, 



Sweet Flow'ret, pledge o' meikle love, 
And ward o' mony a prayer, 

What heart o' stane wad thou na move. 
Sae helpless, sweet, and fair ! 

November hirples o'er the lea, 

Chill on thy lovely form ; 
And gane, alas ! the shelt'ring tree, 

Should shield thee frae the storm. 

May He who gives the rain to pour, 
And wings the blast to blaw, 

Protect thee frae the driving shower, 
The bitter frost and snaw 1 

May He, the friend of woe and want, 
Who heals life's various stounds, 

Protect and guard the mother plant, 
And heal her cruel wounds ! 

But late she fiourish'd, rooted fast, 
Fair on the summer morn: 



Now feebly bends she in the blast, 
Unshelter'd and forlorn. 

Blest be thy bloom, thou lovely gem, 
Unscath'd by ruffian hand ! 

And from thee many a parent stem 
Arise to deck our land ! 



THE WHISTLE: 

A BALLAD. 



Sixth, there cam 
gantic stature an 
pion of Bacchus. 



e it.— 



and whoever w 



Scotland with our James the 

over also a Danish gentleman ofgu 
great prowess, and a matchless cham. 
He had a little ebony "Whistle which 
lent of the orgies he laid on the table, 
last able to blow it, every body else 
being disabled by the potency of the bottle, was to carry 
off the Whistle as a trophy of victory. The Dane pro- 
duced credentials of his victories without a single de- 
feat, at the courts of Copenhagen, Stockholm, Moscow, 
Warsaw, and several of the petty courts in Germany ; 
and challenged the Scots Bacchanalians to the alterna- 
tive of trying his prowess, or else of acknowledging 
their inferiority. After many overthrows on the part 
of the Scots, the Dane was encountered by Sir Robert 
Lawrie of Maxwelton, ancestor to the present worthy 
baronet of that name ; who, after three days and three 
nights, hard contest, left the Scandinavian tinder the 
table, 

And blew on the Whistle his requiem shrill. 

Sir Walter, son to Sir Robert before mentioned, af- 
terwards lost the Whistle to Walter Riddel, of Glen- 
riddel, who had married a sister of Sir Walter's. — On 
Friday the 16th of October, 1790, at Friars-Carse, the 
Whistle was once more contended for, as related in the 
ballad, by the present Sir Robert Lawrie of Maxwelton ; 
Robert Riddel Esq. of Glenriddel, lineal descendant and 
representative of Walter Riddel, who won the Whistle, 
and in whose family it had continued ; and Alexander 
Ferguson, Esq. of Craigdarroch, likewise descended of 
the great Sir Robert; which last gentleman carried off 
the hard- won honours of the field. 



I sing of a Whistle, a Whistle of worth, 
I sing of a Whistle, the pride of the North, 
Was brought to the court of our good Scottish 

king, 
And long with this Whistle all Scotland shall 

ring- 
Old Loda*, still rueing the arm of Fingal, 
The god of the bottle sends down from his 

hall— 
" This Whistle's your challenge, to Scotland 

get o'er, 
And drink them to hell, Sir ! or ne'er see me 

more !" 

Old poets have sung, and old chronicles tell, 
What champions ventur'd, what champions 

fell; 
The son of great Loda was conqueror still, 
And blew on the Whistle his requiem shrill. 



• See Ossian's Caric-thura. 



Till Robert, the lord of the Cairn and the 

Unmatch'd at the bottle, unconquer'd in war, 
He drank his poor god-ship as deep as the sea, 
No tide of the Baltic e'er drunker than he. 

Thus Robert, victorious, the trophy has 

Which now in his house has for ages remain'd ; 
Till three noble chieftains, and all of his blood, 
The jovial contest again have renew'd. 

Three joyous good fellows, with hearts clear 

of flaw ; 
Craigdarroch, so famous for wit, worth, and 

law; 
And trusty Glenriddel, so skill'd in old coins ; 
And gallant Sir Robert, deep read in old wines. 

Craigdarroch began, with a tongue smooth 

as oil, 
Desiring Glenriddel to yield up the spoil ; 
Or else he would muster the heads of the clan, 
And once more, in claret, try which was the 

man. 

" By the gods of the ancients," Glenriddel 
replies, 
" Before I surrender so glorious a prize, 
I'll conjure the ghost of the great Rorie More,* 
And bumper his horn with him twenty times 



Sir Robert, a soldier, no speech would pre- 
tend, 

But he ne'er turn'd his back on his foe — or his 
friend, 

Said, Toss down the Whistle, the prize of the 
field, 

And knee-deep in claret, he'd die or he'd yield. 

To the board of Glenriddel our heroes repair, 
So rioted for drowning of sorrow and care ; 
But for wine and for welcome not more known 

to fame, 
Than the sense, wit, and taste, of a sweet 

lovely dame. 

A bard was selected to witness the fray ; 
And tell future ages the feats of the day ; 
A bard who detested all sadness and spleen, 
And wish'd that Parnassus a vineyard had been. 

The dinner being over, the claret they ply, 
And ev'ry new cork is a new spring of joy , 
In the bands of old friendship and kindred so 

set, 
And the bands grew the tighter the more they 
were wet. 

Gay pleasure ran riot as bumpers ran o'er ; 
Bright Phoebus ne'er witness'd so joyous a 



And vowed that to leave them he was quite 

forlorn, 
Till Cynthia hinted he'd see them next mom. 

Six bottles a- piece had well wore out the 

night, 
When gallant Sir Robert, to finish the fight, 
Turn'd o'er in one bumper a bottle of red, 
And swore 'twas the way that their ancestors 

did. 

Then worthy Glenriddel, so cautious and 
sage, 
No longer the warfare, ungodly, would wage ; 
A high-ruling Elder to wallow in wine ! 
He left the foul business to folks less divine. 

The gallant Sir Robert fought hard to the 

end ; 
But who can with fate and quart bumpers con- 

tend? 
Though fate said— a hero should perish in light ; 
So uprose bright Phoebus — and down fell the 

knight. 

Next uprose our bard, like a prophet in 
drink ; — 
" Craigdarroch, thou'lt soar when creation 

shall sink ; 
But if thou would flourish immortal in rhyme 
Come — one bottle more — and have at the sub- 
lime ! 

"Thy line, that have struggled for Freedom 

with Bruce, 
Shall heroes and patriots ever produce ; 
So thine be the laurel, and mine be the bay ; 
The field thou hast won, by yon bright god of 

day !" 



SECOND EPISTLE TO DAVIE, 

A BROTHER POET, f 
AULD NEEEOK, 

I'm three times doubly o'er your debtor, 
For your auld farrent, frien'ly letter ; 
Tho' I maun say't, I doubt ye flatter, 

Ye speak so fair : 
For my puir, silly, rhymin' clatter, 

Some less maun sair. 

Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle ; 
Lang may your elbuck jink and diddle, 
Tae cheer you through the weary widdle 

O' war'ly cares, 
Till bairns' bairns kindly cuddle 

Your auld grey hairs. 

But Davie, lad, I'll red ye'er glaikit ; 
I'm tauld the Muse ye hae negleckit; 

t This is prefixed to the poems of David Sillnr, pub- 
lished at Kilmarnock, 1789, and has not before appeared 
in our author's printed poems 



154 



BURNS' WORKS. 



An' gif it's sae, ye sud be lickit 

Until ye fyke ; 
Sic bans as you sud ne'er be faikit, 

Be hain't wha like. 

For me, I'm on Parnassus brink, 
Rivin' tbe words tae gar them clink ; 
Whyles daez't wi' love, whyles daez't wi' drink, 

Wi' jads or masons ; 
An' whyles, but aye owre late, I think, 

Braw sober lessons. 

Of a' the thoughtless sons o' man, 
Commen' me to the bardie clan ; 
Except it be some idle plan 

O' rhyrnin' clink, 
The devil-haet, *hat I sud ban, 

They ever think. 

Nae thought, nae view, nae scheme of livin'; 
Nae cares to gie us joy or grievin': 
But just the pouchie put the nieve in, 

An' while ought's there, 
Then, hiltie, skiltie, we gae scrievin', 

An' fash nae mair. 

Leeze me on rhyme ! its aye a treasure, 
My chief, amaist my only pleasure, 
At hame, a-fiel', at wark or leisure, 

The Muse, poor hizzie ! 
Tho' rough an' raploch be her measure, 

She's seldom lazy. 

Haud tae the Muse, my dainty Davie : 
The warl' may play you mony a shavie; 
But for the Muse, she'll ne'er leave ye, 

Tho' e'er sae poor, 
Na, even tho' limpin' wi' the spavie 

Frae door tae door. 



ON MY EARLY DAYS. 

I. 

I mind it weel in early date, 

When I was beardless, young, and blate, 

An' first could thresh the barn ; 
Or haud a yokin o' the pleugh ; 
An' tho' forfoughten sair eneugh, 

Yet unco proud to learn ; 
When first amang the yellow corn 

A man I reckon'd was, 
And wi' the lave ilk merry morn 
Could rank my rig and lass, 
Still shearing, and clearing 
The titber stooked raw, 
Wi' claivers, an' haivers, 
Wearing the day awa. 

II. 
E'en then a wish, I mind its pow'r, 
A wish that to my latest hour 
Shall stronglv heave my breast, 



That I for poor auld Scotland's sake 
Some usefu' plan or book could make, 

Or sing a sang at least. 
The rough burr-thistle, spreading wide 

Amang the bearded bear, 
I turn'd the weeder-clips aside, 
An' spared the symbol dear : 
No nation, no station, 

My envy e'er could raise, 
A Scot still, but blot still, 
I knew nae higher praise. 

III. 
But still the elements o' sang 
In formless jumble, right an' rang, 

Wild floated in my brain : 
' Till on that har'st I said before, 
My partner in the merry core, 

She rous'd the forming strain : 
I see her yet, the sonsie quean, 

That lighted up her jingle, 
Pier witching smile, her pauky e'en 
That gart my heart-strings tingle ,• 
I fired, inspired, 

At every kindling keek, 

But bashing, and dashing, 

I feared aye to speak.* 



SONG. 

Tune — " Bonnie Dundee." 

In Mauchline there dwells six proper young 
Belles, 
The pride of the place and its neighbour- 
hood a', 
Their carriage and dress, a stranger would 
guess, 
In Lon'on or Paris they'd gotten it a' 
Miss Miller is fine, Miss Murhland's divine, 
Miss Smith she has wit, and Miss Betty is 
bi aw : 
There's beauty and fortune to gret wi' Miss 
Morton, 
But Armour's^ the jewel for me o' them a' 



ON THE DEATH OF 

SIR JAMES HUNTER BLAIR. 

The lamp of day, with ill-presaging glare, 
Dim, cloudy, sunk beneath the western 
wave ; 
Th' inconstant blast howl'd thro' the darken- 
ing air, 
And hollow whistled in the rocky cave. 



* Thereader will find some explanation of this poem 
t This is one of our Bard's early productions. 



Lone as I wander'd by each cliff and dell, 
Once the loved haunts of Scotia's royal 
train;' 
Or mused where limpid streams once hallow'd, 
weU.f 
Or mould'ring ruins mark the sacred fane.f 

Th' increasing blast roar'd round the beetling 
rocks, 
The.clouds, swift -wing'd, flew o'er the starry 
sky, 
The groaning trees untimely shed their locks, 
And shooting meteors caught the startled 
eye. 

The paly moon rose in the livid east, 

And 'mong the cliffs disclosed a stately 
form, 
In weeds of woe that frantic beat her breast, 
And mix'd her wailings with the raving 
storm. 

Wild to my heart the filial pulses glow, 

'Twas Caledonia's trophied shield Iview'd; 

Her form majestic droop'd in pensive woe, 
The lightning of her eye in tears imbued. 

Reversed that spear, redoubtable in war, 
Reclined that banner, erst in fields unfurl'd, 

That like a deathful meteor gleam'd afar, 
And braved the mighty monarchs of the 
world. — 

" My patriot son fills an untimely grave !" 

With accents wild and lifted arms she cried ; 
" Low lies the hand that oft was stretch'd to 
save, 
Low lies the heart that swell'd with honest 
pride I 

I" A weeping country joins a widow's tear, 

The helpless poor mix with the orphan's cry ; 
The drooping arts around their patron's bier, 
And grateful science heaves the heartfelt 
sigh. 

" I saw my sons resume their ancient fire ; 

I saw fair Freedom's blossoms richly blow ! 
But, ah ! how hope is born but to expire ! 

Relentless fate has laid the guardian low. — 

«' My patriot falls, but shall he lie unsung, 
While empty greatness saves a worthless 
name i 

No ; every Muse shall join her tuneful tongue, 
And future ages hear his growing fame. 

" And I will join a mother's tender cares, 
Thro' future times to make his virtues last, 

That distant years may boast of other Blairs" — 
She said, and vanish'd with the sweeping 
blast. 



* The King's Park at Holvrood.house. 
tSt Anthony's Well. 
$St Anthony's Chapel. 



ON THE BLANK LEAF OF A COIY OF THE POEMS, 

PRESENTED TO AN OLD SWEETHEART, THEN 

MARRIED.* 

Once fondly lov'd, and still remember'd dear, 
Sweet early object of my youthful vows, 

Accept this mark of friendship, warm, sincere, 
Friendship 1 'tis all cold duty now allows.— 

And when you read the simple artless rhymes, 
One friendly sigh for him, he asks no more, 

Who distant burns in flaming torrid climes, 
Or haply lies beneath th* Atlantic roar. 



THE JOLLY BEGGARS: 

A CANTATA. 



KECITATIVO. 

When lyart leaves bestrow the yird, 
Or wavering like the Bauckie-bird,f 

Bedim cauld Boreas' blast • 
When hailstanes drive \vi' bit.er skyte, 
And infant frosts begin to bite, 
In hoary cranreuch drest ; 
Ae night at e'en a merry core, 
O' randie, gangrel bodies, 
In Poosie-Nansie's held the splore, 
To drink their orra duddies : 
Wi' quaffing and laughing, 

They ranted and they sang ; 
Wi' jumping and thumping, 
The vera girdle rang. 

First, niest the fire, in auld red rags, 
Ane sat, weel brac'd wi' mealy bags, 

And knapsack a' in order ; 
His doxy lay within his arm, 
Wi' usquebae an' blankets warm — 

She blinket on her sodger : 
An' aye he gies the tousie drab 

The tither skelpin 1 kiss, 
While she held up her greedy gab 
Just like an a'mous dish. 
Ilk smack did crack still, 

Just like a cadger's whip, 

Then staggering and swaggering 

He roar'd this ditty up — 



Tune — " Soldier's Joy." 

I. 

I am a son of Mars who have been in many 

wars, 
And show my cuts and scars wherever I come ; 

* The girl mentioned in the letter to Dr Moore. 
i The old Scotch name fur the Bat. 



156 



BURNS' WORKS. 



This here was for a wench, and that other in 

a trench, 
When welcoming the French at the sound of 

the drum. 

Lai de daudle, &c. 

II. 

My 'prenticeship I past where my leader 

breath'd his last, 
When the bloody die was cast on the heights 

of Abram ; 
I served out my trade when the gallant game 

was play'd, 
And the Moro low was laid at the sound of 

the drum. 

Lai de daudle, &c 

III. 

I lastly was with Curtis, among the floating 

batt'ries, 
And there I left for witness an arm and a limb ; 
Yet let my country need me, with Elliot to 

head me, 
I'd clatter my stumps at the sound of the drum. 
Lai de daudle, &c. 

IV. 

And now tho' I must beg with a wooden arm 

and leg, 
And many a tatter'd rag hanging over my bum, 
I'm as happy with my wallet, my bottle and 

my callet, 
As when I us'd in scarlet to follow a drum. 
Lai de daudle, &c. 

V. 
What tho' with hoary locks, I must stand the 

winter shocks, 
Beneath the woods and rocks often times for a 

home, 
When the tother bag I sell, and the tother 

bottle tell, 
I could meet a troop of hell, at the sound of 

the drum. 

Lai de daudle, &c. 

RECITATIVO. 

He ended ; and the kebars sheuk, 

Aboon the chorus roar ; 
While frighted rattans backward leuk, 

And seek the ber.most bore ; 
A fairy fiddler frae the neuk, 

He skirl'd out encore ! 
But up arose the martial chuck, 

And laid the loud uproar. 

AIR. 
Tune—" Soldier Laddie." 

I once was a maid, tho' I cannot tell when, 
And still my delight is in proper young men ; 
Some one of a troop of dragoons was my daddie, 
No wonder I'm fond of a sodger laddie. 
Sing, Lai de lal, &c. 



The first of my loves was a swaggering blade, 
To rattle the thundering drum was his trade ; 
His leg was so tight, and his cheek was so 

ruddy, 
Transported I was with my sodger laddie. 
Sing, Lal de lal, &c. 

III. 

But the godly old chaplain left him in the lurch, 
The sword I forsook for the sake of the church, 
He ventur'd the soul, and I risked the body, 
' Twas then I prov'd false to my sodger laddie. 
Sing, Lal de lal, &c. 

IV. 

Full soon I grew sick of my sanctified sot, 
The regiment at large for a husband I got ; 
From the gilded spontoon to the fife I was 

ready, 
I asked no more but a sodger laddie. 
Sing, Lal de lal, &c. 

V. 

But the peace it reduc'd me to beg in despair, 
Till I met my old boy at Cunningham fair ; 
His rag regimental they flutter'd so gaudy, 
My heart it rejoic'd at my sodger laddie. 
Sing, Lal de lal, &c. 

VI. 
And now I have liv'd — I know not how long. 
And still I can join in a cup or a song; 
But whilst with both hands I can hold the glass 

steady, 
Here's to thee, my hero, my sodger laddie. 
Sing, Lal de lal, &c. 

RECITATIVO. 

Then niest outspak a raucle carlin, 
Wha kent sae weel to cleek the sterling, 
For moriie a pursie she had hooked, 
And had in mony a well been ducked. 
Her dove had been a Highland laddie, 
But weary fa' the waefu' wcodie J 
Wi' sighs and sobs she thus began 
To wail her braw John Highlandman. 



Tune — " O an ye were dead Gudeman.»* 
I. 
A highland lad my love was born, 
The Lalland laws he held in scorn ; 
But he still was faithfu' to his clan, 
My gallant braw John Highlandman. 



Sing, hey my braw John Highlandman ! 
Sing, ho my braw John Highlandman ! 
There's not a lad in a' the Ian' 
Was match for my John Highlandman. 



151 



II. 

With his pbilibeg an' tartan plaid, 
An' gude claymore down by his side, 
The ladies hearts he did trepan, 
My gallant braw John Highlandman. 
Sing, hey, &c. 

III. 
We ranged a' from Tweed to Spey, 
An* liv'd like lords and ladies gay ; 
For a Lalland face he feared none, 
My gallant braw John Highlandman. 
Sing, hey, &c. 

IV. 

They banish'd him beyond the sea, 
But ere the bud was on the tree, 
Adown my cheeks the pearls ran, 
Embracing my John Highlandman 
Sing, hey, &c 

V. 
But, oh ! they catch'd him at the last, 
And bound him in a dungeon fast : 
My curse upon them every one, 
They've hang'd my braw John Highlandman. 
Sing, hey, &c. 

VI. 
And now a widow, I must mourn 
The pleasures that will ne'er return j 
No comfort but a hearty can, 
When I think on John Highlandman. 
Sing, hey, &c. 

RECITATIVO. 

A pigmy scraper, wi' his fiddle, 

Wha us'd at trysts and fairs to driddle, 

Her strappan limb and gausy middle 

He reach'd nae higher, 
Had hol'd his heartie like a riddle, 

An* blawn't on fire. 

Wi' hand on haunch, an' upward e'e, 
He croon'd his gamut, one, two, three, 
Then in an Arioso key, 

The wee Apollo 
Set off wi' Allegretto glee 

His giga solo. 



Tune— 1 ' Whistle owre the lave o't." 



Let me ryke up to dight that tear, 
An' go wi' me to be my dear, 
An' then your every care and fear 
May whistle owre the lave o't. 



I am a fiddler to my trade, 
An' a' the tunes that e'er I play'd, 
The sweetest still to wife or maid, 
Was whistle owre the lave o't. 



II. 

At kirns and weddings we'se be there, 
An' O ! sae nicely's we will fare ; 
We'll bouse about till Daddie Care 
Sings whistle o'er the lave o't. 
I am, &c. 

III. 

Sae merrily the banes we'll pyke, 

An' sun oursels about the dyke, 

An' at our leisure, when we like, 

We'll whistle o'er the lave o't. 

I am, &c. 

IV 
But bless me wi' your heaven o> charms, 
And while I kittle hair on thairms, 
Hunger, cauld, an' a' sick harms, 
May whistle owre the lave o't. 
I am, &c. 

SECITATIVO. 

Her charms had struck a sturdy Caird, 

As weel as poor Gutscraper ; 
He taks the fiddler by the beard, 

And draws a rusty rapier — 
He swoor by a' was swearing worth, 

To speet him like a pliver, 
Unless he would from that time forth, 

Relinquish her for ever. 

Wi' ghastly e'e, poor tweedle dee 

Upon his hunkers bended, 
And pray'd for grace wi' ruefu' face, 

And sae the quarrel ended. 
But though his little heart did grieve, 

When round the tinkler prest her, 
He feign'd to snirtle in his sleeve, 

When thus the caird address'd her. 

AIR. 
Tune—" Clout the Cauldron." 

I. 

My bonnie lass, I work in brass, 

A tinkler is my station ; 
I've travell'd round all Christian ground 

In this my occupation. 
I've ta'en the gold, I've been enroll'd 

In many a noble squadron : 
But vain they search'd, when off I march'd 

To go and clout the cauldron. 

I've ta'en the gold, &c. 

II. 

Despise that shrimp, that wither'd imp, 

Wi' a' his noise an' caprin', 
An' tak' a share wi' those that bear 

The budget an' the apron. 
An' by that stowp, my faith and houp, 

An' by that dear Keilbagie,* 



BURNS' WORKS 



If e'er ye want, or meet wi' scant, 
May I ne'er vveet my craigie. 

An' by that stowp, &c. 

KECITATIVO. 

The caird prevail'd — the unblushing fair 

In his embraces sunk, 
Partly wi' love o'ercome sae sair, 

An' partly she was drunk. 
Sir Violino, with an air 

That show'd a man of spunk, 
Wish'd unison between the pair, 

An' made the bottle clunk 

To their health that night. 

But hurchin Cupid shot a shaft 

That play'd a dame a shavie, 
The fiddler rak'd her fore and aft, 

Behint the chicken cavie. 
Her lord, a wight o' Homer's * craft, 

Tho' limping with the spavie, 
He hirpl'd up, and lap like daft, 

An' shor'd them Daintie Davie 

O boot that night. 

He was a care-defying blade 

As ever Bacchus listed, 
Though Fortune sair upon him laid, 

His heart she ever miss'd it. 
He had no wish but — to be glad, 

Nor want but — when he thirsted ; 
He hated nought but — to be sad, 

And thus the Muse suggested, 

His sang that night. 



Tune— "For a' that, an' a' that. 

I. 

I am a bard of no regard, 
Wi' gentle folks, an' a' that ; 

But Homer-like, the glowran byke, 
Frae town to town I draw that. 



For a' that, an' a' that ; 

An' twice as meikle's a' that ; 
I've lost but ane, I've twa behin', 

I've wife enough for a' that, 

II. 
1 never drank the Muse's stank, 

Castalia's burn, an' a' that ; 
But there it streams, and richly re;.ms, 
My Helicon I ca' that. 

For a' that, &c 

III. 

Great love I bear to a' the fair, 
Their humble slave, an' a' that; 



But lordly will, I hold it still 
A moral sin to thraw that. 

For a' that, &c. 

IV. 
In raptures sweet, this hour we meet, 

Wi' mutual love an' a' that ; 
But for how lang the Jlie may stang, 
Let inclination law that. 

For a* that, &c. 

V 

Their tricks and craft have put me daft, 

They've ta'en me in, an' a' that : 
But clear your decks, and here's the sex ! 

I like the jads for a* that. 

" For a' that, an' a' that, 

An* twice as meikle's a' that; 

My dearest blind, to do them guid, 
They're welcome till't for a' that. 

flECITATIVO. 

So sung the bard — and Nansie's wa's 
Shook with a thunder of applause, 

Re-echo'd from each mouth ; 
They toom'd their pocks, an' pawn'd their 

duds, 
They scarcely left to co'er their fuds, 

To quench their lowan drouth. 

Then owre again, the jovial thrang, 

The poet did request, 
To loose his pack an' wale a sang, 
A ballad o' the best : 
He rising, rejoicing, 

Between his twa Deborahs, 
Looks round him, an' found them 
Impatient for the chorus. 



Tune—" Jolly Mortals fill your Glasses." 



See ! the smoking bowl before us, 
Mark our jovial ragged ring! 

Round and round take up the chorus, 
And in raptures let us sing. 



A fig for those by law protected ! 

Liberty's a glorious feast ! 
Courts for cowards were erected, 

Churches built to please the priest. 

II. 



What is .ltle ? what is treasure ? 

What is reputation's care ? 
If we lead a life of pleasure, 

'Tis no matter how or where ! 
A fig, &c. 



III. 

With the ready trick and fable, 
Round we wander all the day ; 

And at night, in bam or stable, 
Hug our doxies on the hay. 

A fig, &c, 

IV. 
Does the train-attended carriage 

Through the country lighter rove? 
Does the sober bed of marriage 
Witness brighter scenes of love ? 
A fig, &c 



Life is all a variorum, 

We regard not how it goes ; 
Let them cant about decorum 

Who have characters to lose. 

A fig, &c. 

VI. 
Here's to the budgets, bags, and wallets I 

Here's to all the wandering train! 
Here's our ragged brats and collets \ 

One and all cry out, Amen ! 

A. fig for those by law protected ! 

Liberty's a glorious feast ! 
Courts for cowards were erected, 

Churches built to please the priest 



POEMS. J59 

Yet that winna save ye, auld Satan must have 

ye, 

For preaching that three's ane an' twa. 

Rumble John,* Rumble John, mount the 
steps wi' a groan, 
Cry the book is wi' heresy cramm'd ; 
Then lug out your ladle, deal brimstone like 
adle, 
And roar every note of the damn'd. 

Simper James, + Simper James, leave the fail 
Killiedames, 
There's a holier chace in your view ; 
I'll lay on your head, that the pack ye'll soon 
lead, 
For puppies like you there's but few. 

Singet Sawney,f Singet Sawney, are ye herd- 
ing the penny, 

Unconscious what evils await ; 
Wi' a jump, yell, and howl, alarm every soul, 

For the foul thief is just at your gate. 

Daddy Auld,§ Daddy Auld, there's a tod in 
the fauld, 
A tod meikle waur than the clerk ; 
Tho' ye can do little skaith, ye'll be in at the 
death, 
jxaA. if ye canna bite ye may bark. 



THE KIRK'S ALARM.* 

A SATIRE. 

Orthodox, orthodox, wha believe in John 
Knox, 
Let me sound an alarm to your conscience ; 
There's a heretic blast has been blawn in the 
wast, 
That what is no sense must be 



Dr Mac.f Dr Mac, you should stretch on a 
rack, 

To strike evil doers wi' terror ; 
To join faith and sense upon ony pretence, 

Is heretic, damnable error. 

Town of Ayr, town of Ayr, it was mad, I de- 
clare, 
To meddle wi' mischief a- brewing ; 
Provost John is still deaf to the church's re- 
lief, 
And oratoj Bobf is its ruin. 

D'rymple mil<r,§ D'rymple mild, tho* your 
heart's like a child, 
And your life like the new driven snaw, 

* This poem was written a short time after tho pub- 
lication of Mr M'Gill's Essay. 

f Mr. M' 11. % R 1 A XL 

If Dr V e. 



Davie Bluster, |j Davie Bluster, if for a saint 
ye do muster, 
The corps is no nice of recruits ; 
Yet to worth let's be just, royal blood ye 
might boast, 
If the ass was the king of the brutes. 

Jamie Goose,f Jamie Goose, ye ha'e made but 
toom roose, 
In hunting the wicked lieutenant ; 
But the Doctor's your mark, for the L — d's 
haly ark ; 
He has cooper'd and cawd a wrang pin in't. 

Poet Willie,** Poet Willie, gie the Doctor a 
volley, 

Wi' your liberty's chain and your wit ; 
O'er Pegasus' side ye ne'er laid a stride, 

Ye but smelt, man, the place where he sh- 

Andro Gouk,ff Andro Gouk, ye may slandei 

the book, 

And the book not the waur let me tell ye ; 

Ye are rich, and look big, but lay by hat and 

wig, 

And ye'll ha'e a calf's head o' sma' value. 

Barr Steenie,l| Barr Steenie, what mean ye ? 
what mean ye ! 
If ye'll meddle nae mair wi' the matter, 






BURNS' WORKS. 



Ye may ha'e some pretence to havins and 
sense, 
Wi' people wha ken ye nae better. 

Irvine side,* Irvine side, wi' your turkey-cock 
pride, 
Of manhood but sma' is your share ; 
Ye've the figure, 'tis true, even your faes will 
allow, 
And your friends they dare grant you nae 
mair. 

Muirland Jock,f Muirland Jock, when the 
L — d makes a rock 
To crush Common Sense for her sins, 
If ill manners were wit, there's no mortal 
so fit 
To confound the poor Doctor at ance. 

Holy Will.j Holy Will, there was wit i' your 

skull, 

When ye pilfer'd the alms o' the poor ; 

The timmer is scant, when ye're ta'en for a 

saint, 

Wha should swing in a rape for an hour. 

Calvin's sons, Calvin's sons, seize your sp'ri- 
tual guns, 
Ammunition ye never can need ; 
Your hearts are the stuff, will be powther 
enough, 
And your skulls are storehouses o' lead. 

Poet Burns, Poet Burns, wi' your priest- 
skelping turns, 
Why desert ye your auld native shire ; 
Your muse is a gipsie, e'en tho' she were 
tipsie, 
She could ca' us nae waur than we are. 



THE TWA HERDS.§ 

O a' ye pious godly flocks, 
Weel fed on pasture's orthodox, 
Wha now will keep you frae the fox, 

Or worrying tykes, 
Or wha will tent the waifs and crocks, 

About the dykes ? 

The twa best herds in a' the wast, 
That e'er ga'e gospel horn a blast,^ 
These five and twenty simmers past, 

O ! dool to tell, 
Ha'e had a bitter black out-cast 

Atvveen themsel. 

O, M y, man, and worthy R 11, 

How could you raise so vile a bustle, 



This piece was amontj the first of our Author's pro. 
ductions which he submitted to the public ; and wasoc 
easioued by a dispute between two clergymen, near 
Kilmarnock. 



Ye '11 see how new-light herds will whistle, 
And think it fine ! 

The Lord's cause ne'er gat sic a twistle, 
Sin' I ha'e min'. 

O, Sirs ! whae-er wad ha'e expeckit, 

Your duty ye wad sae negleckit, 

Ye wha were ne'er by laird respeckit, 

To wear the plaid, 
But by the brutes themselves eleckit, 

To be their guide. 

What flock wi' M y's flock could rank, 

Sae hale and hearty every shank, 
Nae poison'd soor Arminian stank, 

He let them taste, 
Frae Calvin's well, aye clear they drank, 

sic a feast ! 

The thummart, wil'-cat, brock, and tod, 
Weel kend his voice thro' a' the wood, 
He smelt their ilka hole and road, 

Baith out and in, 
And weel he lik'd to shed their bluid, 

And sell their skin. 

What herd like R 11 tell'd his tale, 

His voice was heard thro' muir and dale, 
He kend the Lord's sheep, ilka tail, 

O'er a' the height, 
And saw gin they were sick or hale, 

At the first sight. 

He fine a mangy sheep could scrub, 

Or nobly fling the gospel club, 

And new-light herds could nicely drub, 

Or pay their skin, 
Could shake them o'er the burning dub j 

Or heave them in. 

Sic twa — O ! do I live to see't, 
Sic famous twa should disagreet, 
An' names, like villain, hypocrite, • 

Ilk ither gi'en, 
While new-light herds wi' laughin' spite, 

Say neither's liein' ! 

A' ye wha tent the gospel fauld, 

There's D- n, deep, and P s, shaul* 

But chieiiy thou, apostle A — d 

We trust in thee, 
That thou wilt work them, hot aud cauld, 

Till they agree. 

Consider, Sirs, how we're beset, 
There's scarce a new herd that we get, 
But comes, frae 'mang that cursed set, 

1 winna name, 
I hope frae heav'n to see them yet 

In fiery flame. 

D e has been lang our fae. 

M' 11 has wraught us meikle wae. 

And that curs'd rascal ca'd M' e, 

- And baith the S s. 



That aft ha'e made us black and blae, 
Wi' vengefu' paws. 

Auld W w lang has ha'tch'd mischief, 

We thought aye death wad bring relief, 
But he has gotten, to our grief, 

A ne to succeed him, 
A chield wha'll soundly buff our beef ; 

I meikle dread him. 

And mony a ane that I could tell, 
Wha fain would openly rebel, 
Forby turn-coats amang oursel, 

There S — h for ane, 
I doubt he's but a grey -nick quill, 
And that ye'll fin'. 

O ! a' ye flocks o'er a' the hills, 

By mosses, meadows, moors, and fells, 

Come join your counsel and your skills, 

To cow the lairds, 
And get the brutes the power themsels, 

To choose their herds. 

Then Orthodoxy yet may prance, 

And learning in a woody dance, 

And that fell cur ca'd Common Sense, 

That bites sae sair, 
Be banish'd o'er the sea to France : 

Let him bark there. 

Then Shaw's and Dalrymple's eloquence, 

M' 11' s close nervous excellence, 

M'Q — e's pathetic manly sense, 

And guid M< h, 

Wi' S — th, wha thro' the heart can glance, 

May a' pack aff 



THE HENPECK'D HUSBAND. 

Curs'd be the man, the poorest wretch in life, 
The crouching vassal to the tyrant wife, 
Who has no will but by her high permission ; 
Who has not sixpence but in her possession ; 
Who must to her his dear friend's secret tell : 
Who dreads a curtain lecture worse than hell. 
Were such the wife had fallen to my part, 
' I'd break her spirit, or I'd break her heart ; 
I'd charm her with the magic of a switch, 
I'd kiss her maids, and kick the perverse b — h. 



ELEGY ON THE YEAR 1788. 

For lords or kings Idinim mourn, 
E'en let them die — for that they're born ! 
But, oh, prodigious to reflect, 
A Towmont, Sirs, is gane to wreck ! 
O Eighty-eight, in thy sma' space 
What dire events ha'e taken place ! 
Of what enjoyments thou hast reft us ! 
In what a pickle thou has left us ! 



MS. 161 

The Spanish empire's tint ahead, 
An' my auld teethless Bawtie's dead; 
The toolzie's teugh 'tween Pitt an' Fox, 
An' our guid wife's wee birdy cocks ; 
The tane is game, a bluidy devil, 
Hut to the hen-birds unco civil ; 
The tither's dour, has nae sic breedin', 
But better stuff ne'er claw'd a midden 1 

Ye ministers, come mount the pulpit, 
An' cry till ye be hearse an' rtipit ; 
For Eighty- eight he wish'd you weel 
An' gied you a' baith gear an' meal ; 
E'en mony a plack, an' mony a peck, 
Ye ken yoursels, for little feck ! 

Ye bonnie lasses dight your een, 
For some o' you hae tint a frien"; 
In Eighty-eight, ye ken, was ta'en 
What ye'll ne'er hae to gi'e again. 

Observe the very nowt an* sheep, 
How dowffan' dowie now they creep; 
Nay, even the yirth itsel' does cry, 
For Embro' wells are grutten dry. 

O Eighty-nine thou's but a bairn, 
An' no owre auld, I hope, to learn ! 
Thou beardless boy, I pray tak' care, 
Thou now has got thy dad'dy's chair, 
Nae hand-cuff 'd, mizzl'd. haff-shackl'd Regent 
But, like himsel', a full free agent. 
Be sure ye follow out the plan 
Nae waur than he did, honest man ! 
As meikle better as you can. 
January 1, 11S9. 



WRITTEN ON A WINDOW OF THE INN AT CAB- 



We cam na here to view your warks 

In hopes to be mair wise, 
But only, lest we gang to hell, 

It may be nae surprise : 
But when we tirl'd at your door, 

Your porter dought na hear us ; 
Sae may, should we to hell's yetts come 

Your billy Satan sair us ! 



LINES WRITTEN BY BURNS, 

WHILE ON HIS DEATH-BED, TO J— N R— K N. 

AYRSHIRE, AND FORWARDED TO HIM IMMB. 
DIATELY AFTER THE POET'S DE AXH. 

He who of R — k— n sang, lies stiff and dead 
And a green grassy hillock hides his head j 
Alas ' alas ! a devilish change indeed! 
L 



BURNS' WORKS. 



M ameeting of the Dumfriesshire Volunteers, held j STAY, MY CHARMER, CAN YOU 
to commemorate the anniversary of Rodney's victory, LEAVE ME? 

April 12th, 1782, Burns was called upon for a Song-, ; 
instead of which he delivered the following Lines :— Tune—" An Gille dubh ciar annua." 



Instead of a song, boys, I'll give you a toast, 
Here's the memory of those on the twelfth 

that we lost ; — 
That we lost, did I say, nay, by heav'n ! that we 

found, 
For their fame it shall last while the world 

goes round. 
The next in succession, I'll give you the King, 
Whoe'er would betrayhim on highmay he swing; 
And here's the grand fabric, our free Consti- 
tution, 
As built on the base of the great Revolution ; 
And longer with Politics not to be cramm'd, 
Be Anarchy curs'd, and be Tyranny damn'd ; 
And who would to Liberty e'er prove disloyal, 
May his son be a hangman, and he his first trial. 



THE BIRKS OF ABERFELDY. 

Bonny lassie will ye go, will ye go, will ye go, 
Bonny lassie will ye go, to the Birks of Aber- 
feldy ? 



Now summer blinks on flowery braes, 
And o'er the crystal streamlet plays, 
Come let us spend the lightsome days 
In the birks of Aberfeldy. 
Bonnie lassie, &c. 

While o'er their heads the hazels bing, 
The little birdies blythely sing, 
Or lightly flit on wanton wing 
In the birks of Aberfeldy. 
Bonnie lassie, &c. 

The braes ascend like lofty wa's^ 
The foaming stream deep-roaring fa's, 
O'erhung wi' fragrant spreading shaws, 
The birks of Aberfeldy. 

Bonnie lassie, &c. 

The hoary cliffs are crown'd wi' flowers, 
White o'er the linns the burnie pours, 
And rising, weets wi' misty showers 
The birks of Aberfeldy. 

Bonnie lassie, &c. 

Let fortune's gifts at random flee, 
They ne'er shall draw a wish frae me, 
Supremely blest wi' love and thee 
In the birks of Aberfeldy. 
Bonnie lassie, &c* 



s Dorrowed but the chorus 



Stay, my charmer, can you leave me? 

Cruel, cruel to deceive me ! 

Well you know how much you grieve me; 

Cruel charmer, can you go ? 

Cruel charmer, can you go ? 

By my love so ill-requited ; 

By the faith you fondly plighted ; 

By the pangs of lovers slighted ; 

Do not, do not leave me so! 

Do not, do not leave me so ! 



STRATHALLAN'S LAMENT. 

Thickest night o'erhangs my dwelling! 

Howling tempests o'er me rave ! 
Turbid torrents, wintry swelling, 

Still surround my lonely cave ! 

Chrystal streamlets gently flowing, 
Busy haunts of base mankind, 

Western breezes, softly blowing, 
Suit not my distracted mind. 



In the cause of right e 

Wrongs injurious to redress, 

Honour's war we strongly waged, 
But the heavens deny'd success. 

Ruin's wheel has driven o'er us, 
Not a hope that dare attend, 

The wide world is all before us — 
But a world without a friend !* 



THE YOUNG HIGHLAND ROVER. 

Tune — " Morag." 
Loud blavv the frosty breezes, 

The snaws the mountains cover ; 
Like winter on me seizes, 

Since my young highland rover 

Far wanders nations over. 
Where'er he go, where'er he stray, 

May heaven be his warden : 
Return him safe to fair Strathspey, 

And bonnie Castle- Gordon ' 

The trees now naked groaning, 

Shall soon wi' leaves be hinging, 
The birdies dowie moaning, 

Shall a' be blythely singing, 
And every flower be springing. 



* Strathallan, it is presumed, was one of the followers 
of the young Chevalier, ana is supposed to be lying' con- 
cealed in some cave of the Highlands, after the battle 
of Culloden. This song was written before the year 
176a 



163 



Sae I'll rejoice the lee-lang day, 
When by his mighty warden 

My youth's returned to fair Strathspey, 
And bonnie Castle- Gordon.* 



RAVING WINDS AROUND HER 
BLOWING. 



Tune—" M'Grigor of Ruaro's Lament." 

Raving winds around her blowing, 
Yellow leaves the woodlands strowing, 
By a river hoarsely roaring, 
Isabella stray'd deploring. 
" Farewell, hours that late did measure 
Sunshine days of joy and pleasure ; 
Hail, thou gloomy night of sorrow, 
Cheerless night that knows no morrow. 

" O'er the past too fondly wandering, 
On the hopeless future pondering ; 
Chilly grief my life-blood freezes, 
Fell despair my fancy seizes. 
Life, thou soul of every blessing, 
Load to misery most distressing, 
O how gladly I'd resign thee, 
And to dark oblivion join thee !"f 



MUSING ON THE ROARING 
OCEAN. 

Tune — " Druimion dabh." 

Musing on the roaring ocean, 
Which divides my love and me ; 

Wearying heaven in warm devotion, 
For his weal where'er he be. 

Hope and fear's alternate billow 

Yielding late to nature's law, 
Whisp'ring spirits round my pillow 

Talk of him that's far avva. 

Ye whom sorrow never wounded, 

Ye who never shed a tear, 
Care-troubled, joy-surrounded, 

Gaudy day to you is dear. 

Gentle night, do thou befriend me : 
Downy sleep the curtain draw ; 

Spirits kind, again attend me, 
Talk of him that's far awa ! 



* The young Highland rover is supposed to be the 
young Chevalier, Prince Charles Edward. 

+ The occasion on which this poem was written is 
unknown the Editor. It is an early composition. 



BLYTHE WAS SHE. 

Blythe, blythe and merry was she, 
Blythe was she but and ben ; 

Blythe by the banks of Em, 
And blythe in Glenturit glen. 

By Oughtertyre grows the aik, 

On Yarrow banks, the birken shaw ; 

But Phemie was a bonnier lass 
Than braes o' Yarrow ever saw. 
Blythe, &c. 

Her looks were like a flow'r in May, 
Her smile was like a simmer morn ; 

She tripped by the banks of Ern, 
As light's a bird upon a thorn. 
Blythe, &e. 

Her bonnie face it was as meek 

As ony lamb upon a lee ; 
The evening sun was ne'er sae sweet 

As was the blink o' Phemie's e'e. 
Blythe, &c. 

The Highland hills I've wander'd wide, 
And o'er the Lowlands I hae been j 

But Phemie was the blythest lass 
That ever trod the dewy green. 
Blythe, &c. 



A ROSE-BUD BY MY EARLY 
WALK. 

A rose-bud by my w.rly walk, 
Adown a corn-inclosed bawk, 
Sae gently bent its thorny stalk, 
All on a dewy morning. 

Ere twice the shades o' dawn are fled, 
In a' its crimson glory spread, 
And drooping rich the dewy head, 
It scents the early morning. 

Within the bush, her covert nest 
A little linnet fondly prest, 
The dew sat chilly on her breast 
Sae early in the morning* 

She soon shall see her tender brood, 
The pride, the pleasure o' the wood, 
Amang the fresh green leaves bedewed, 
Awake the early morning. 

So thou, dear bird, young Jeany fair, 
On trembling string or vocal air, 
Shall sweetly pay the tender care 
That tents thy early morning. 

So thou, sweet rose-bud, young and gay 
Shalt beauteous blaze upon the day. 



BURNS' WORKS. 



And bless the parent's evening ray 
That watched thy early morning.* 



WHERE BRAVING ANGRY WIN- 
TER'S STORMS. 

Tune — " N. Gow's Lamentation for Abercairny." 

Where braving angry winter's storms, 

The lofty Ochils rise, 
Far in their shade my Peggy's charms 

First blest my wondering eyes. 
As one who by some savage stream, 

A lonely gem surveys, 
Astonished doubly marks its beam, 

With art's most polished blaze. 

Blest be the wild, sequester'd shade, 

And blest the day and hour, 
Where Peggy's charms I first survey'd, 

When first I felt their pow'r ! 
The tyrant Death, with grim control, 

May seize my fleeting breath ; 
But tearing Peggy from my soul 

Must be a stronger death. 



TIBBIE I HAE SEEN THE DAY. 

Tune—" Invereauld's Reel." 

O Tibbie, I hae seen the day 
Ye would na been sae shy ; 

For laik o' gear ye lightly me, 
But troth, I care na by. 

Yestreen I met you on the moor, 
Ye spak na, but gaed by like stoure 5 
Ye geek at me because I'm poor, 
But fient a hair care I. 
O Tibbie, I hae, &c. 

I doubt na lass, but ye may think, 
Because ye hae the name o' clink, 
That ye can please me at a wink, 
Whene'er ye like to try. 
O Tibbie, I hae, &c. 

But sorrow tak him that's sae mean, 
Altho' his pouch o' coin were clean, 
Wha follows ony saucy quean 
That looks sae proud and high. 
O Tibbie, I hae, &c. 

Altho' a lad were e'er sae smart, 

If that he want the yellow dirt, 

Ye'U cast your head anither airt, 

And answer him fu' dry. 

O Tibbie, I hae, &c. 

But if he hae the name o' gear, 
Yell fasten to him like a brier, 



•This song was written during the winter of 1767. 
Miss J. C. daughter of a friend of the Bard, is the he- 



Tho' hardly he, for sense or lear, 
Be better than the kye. 
O Tibbie, I hae, &c. 

But, Tibbie, lass, tak my advice, 
Your daddie's gear maks you sae nice: 
The deil a ane wad spier your price, 
Were ye as poor as I. 
O Tibbie, I hae, &c. 

There lives a lass in yonder park, 
I would na gie her under sark, 
For thee wi' a' thy thousand mark ; 
Ye need na look sae high. 
O Tibbie, I hae, &c. 



CLARINDA. 

Clarinda, mistress of my soul, 

The measur'd time is run ! 
The wretch beneath the dreary pole, 

So marks his latest sun. 
To what dark cave of frozen night 

Shall poor Sylvander hie ; 
Depriv'd of thee, his life and light, 

The sun of all his joy. 

We part, — but by these precious drops, 

That fill thy lovely eyes ! 
No other light shall guide my steps, 

Till thy bright beams arise. 

She, the fair sun of all her sex, 

Has blest my glorious day : 
And shall a glimmering planet fix 

My worship to its ray ? 



THE DAY RETURNS, MY BOSOM 
BURNS. 

Tune—" Seventh of November." 
The day returns, my bosom burns, 

The blissful day we twa did meet, 
Tho' winter wild in tempest toil'd, 

Ne'er summer sun was half sae sweet: 
Than a' the pride that loads the tide, 

And crosses o'er the sultry line; 
Than kingly robes, than crowns and globes, 

Heaven gave me more, it made thee mine 

While day and night can bring delight, 

Or nature ought of pleasure give ! 
While joys above, my mind can move, 

For thee, and thee alone, I live ! 
When that grim foe of life below, 

Comes in between to make us part j 
The iron hand that breaks our band, 

It breaks my bliss — it breaks my heart. 
THE LAZy MIST. 

The lazy mist hangs from the brow of tha 

hill, 
Concealing the course of the dark winding. 

rill j 



16ft 



How languid the scenes, late so sprightly, ap. 

pear, 
As autumn to winter resigns the pale year. 
The forests are leafless, the meadows are 

brown, 
And all the gay foppery of summer is flown : 
Apart let me wander, apart let me muse, 
How quick time is flying, how keen fate pur- 
How long I have liv'd — but how much liv'd in 

vain ! 
How little of life's scanty span may remain : 
What aspects old Time, in his progress, has 

What ties cruel Fate in my bosom has torn. 
How foolish, or worse, 'till our summit is 

gain'd ! 
And downward, how weaken'd, how darken'd, 

how pain'd ! 
This life's not worth having with all it can 

give, 
For something beyond it poor man sure must 

live. 



O, WERE I ON PARNASSUS HILL. 

Tune — " My love is lost to me." 

were I on Parnassus hill • 
Or had of Helicon my fill ; 
That I might catch poetic skill. 

To sing how dear I love thee. 
But Nith maun be my muse's well, 
My muse maun be thy bonnie seP ; 
On Corsincon I'll glower and spell. 

And write how dear I love thee. 

Then come, sweet muse, inspire my lay ! 
For a' the lee-long simmer's day, 

1 couldna sing, I couldna say, 
How much, how dear, I love thee. 

I see thee dancing o'er the green, 
Thy waist sae jimp, thy limbs sae clean, 
Thy tempting lips, thy roguish e'en — 
By heaven and earth I love thee 

By night, by day, a field, at hame, 

The thoughts o' thee my breast inflame ; 

And aye I muse and sing thy name : 

I only live to love thee, 
Tho' I were doom'd to wander on, 
Beyond the sea, beyond the sun, 
Till my last, weary sand was run ; 

'Till then— and then I love thee. 



I LOVE MY JEAN. 

Tune — " Miss Admiral Gordon's Strathspey." 



Or a' the airts the wind can blaw, 
I dearly like the west, 



For there the bonnie lassie lives, 

The lassie I lo'e best : 
There wild woods grow, and rivers row, 

And mony a hill between ; 
But day and night my fancy's flight 

Is ever wi' my Jean. 

I see her in the dewy flowers, 

I see her sweet and fair: 
I hear her in the tunefu' birds, 

I hear her charm the air : 
There's not a bonnie flower that springs 

By fountain, shaw, or green, 
There's not a bonnie bird that sings, 

But minds me o' my Jean. 



THE BRAES O' BALLOCHMYLE. 

The Catrine woods were yellow seen, 

The flowers decayed on Catrine lee,* 
Nae lav'rock sang on hillock green, 

But nature sicken'd on the e'e. 
Tbro' faded groves Maria sang, 

Hersel' in beauty's bloom the while, 
And aye the wild wood echoes rang, 

Fareweel the braes o* Ballochmyle. 

Low in your wintry beds, ye flowers, 

Again ye'll flourish fresh and fair ; 
Ye birdies dumb, in withering bowers, 

Again ye'll charm the vocal air. 
But here, alas ! for me nae mair, 

Shall birdie charm, or floweret smile ; 
Fareweel the bonnie banks of Ayr, 

Fareweel, fareweel ! sweet Ballochmyle ! 



WILLIE BREW'D A PECK O* 
MAUT. 

O Willie brew VI a peck o* maut, 
And Rob and Allan cam to pree ; 

Three blyther hearts, that lee lang night, 
Ye wad na find in Christendie. 

" We are na fou, we're nae that fou, 
But just a drappie in our e'e ; 

The cock may craw, the day may daw, 
And aye we'll taste the barley bre'e." 

Here are we met, three merry boys, 
Three merry boys I trow are we •, 

And mony a night we've merry been, 

And mony mae we hope to be ! 

" We are na fou," &c. 



* Catrine, in Ayrshire, the seat of Dugald Stewart, 
Esq. ProfeBsorof Moral Philosophy in the University 
of Edinburgh. Ballochmyle, formerly the seat of Sir 
John Whitefoord, now of Alexander, Esq. (1800.) 



166 



BURNS' WORKS. 



It is the moon, I ken her horn, 
That's blinkin in the lift sae hie ; 

She shines sae bright to wyle us hame, 

But by my troth she'll wait a wee ! 

We are nae fou, &c. 

Wha first shall rise to gang awa, 
A cuckold, coward loun is he ! 

Wha first beside his chair shall fa', 
He is the king amang us three ! 
We are nae fou, &c* 



THE BLUE-EYED LASSIE. 

I gaed a waefu' gate yestreen, 

A gate, I fear, I'll dearly rue ; 
I gat my death frae twa sweet e'en, 

'Twa lovely e'en o' bonnie blue. 
Twas not her golden ringlets bright ; 

Her lips like roses, wat wi' dew, 
Her heaving bosom, lily-white — 

It was her e'en sae bonnie blue. 

She talk'd, she smiled, my heart she wyl'd, 

She charmed my soul I wist na how ; 
And aye the stound, the deadly wound, 

Cam frae her e'en sae bonnie blue. 
But spare to speak, and spare to speed ; 

She'll aiblins listen to my vow : 
Should she refuse, I'll lay my dead 

To her twa e'en sae bonny blue.t 



THE BANKS OF NITH. 

Tune — " Robie Donna Gorach." 

The Thames flows proudly to the sea, 

Where royal cities stand ; 
But sweeter flows the Nith to me, 

Where Cummins ance had high command : 
When shall I see that honoured land, 

That winding stream I love so dear ! 
Must wayward fortune's adverse hand 

For ever, ever keep me here. 

How lovely, Nith, thy fruitful vales, 

Where spreading hawthorns gaily bloom ; 
How sweetly wind thy sloping dales 

Where lambkins wanton thro' the broom ! 
Tho' wandering, now, must be my doom, 

Far from thy bonnie banks and braes, 
May there my latest hours consume, 

Amang the friends of early days ! 



* Willie, who "brew'd a peck o' maut," was Mr 
William Nicol ; and Rob and Allan, were our poet, and 
his friend, Allan Masterton. These three honest fel- 
lows—all men of uncommon talents, are now all under 
the ^//.-(1799.) „. r c _ . 

f The heroine of this song- was Miss J. of Lochma- 
ben. This lady, now Mrs R. after residing some time 
in Liverpool, is settled with her husband in New York, 
North America. 



JOHN ANDERSON MY JO. 

John Anderson, my jo, John, 

When we we're first acquent, 
Your locks were like the raven, 

Your bonnie brow was brent ; 
But now your brow is beld, John, 

Your locks are like the snaw ; 
But blessings on your frosty pow, 

John Anderson my jo. 

John Anderson, my jo, John, 

We clamb the hill thegither ; 
And mony a canty day, John, 

We've had wi' ane anither. 
Now we maun totter down, John, 

But hand in hand we'll go : 
And sleep thegither at the foot, 

John Anderson my jo.* 



* In the first volume of a collection erititled, Poetry 
Original and Selected, printed by Brash and Reid ot 
Glasgow, this song is given as follows : 

JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO, IMPROVED, 

BY ROBERT BURNS. 

John Anderson, my jo, John, I wonder what you mean, 
To rise so soon in the morning, and sit up so late at e'en, 
Ye'll blear out a' your e'en, John, and why should you 



Gang s( 



;o your bed a 



1, John Anderson, my jo. 



John Anderson, my jo, John, when nature first began 
To try her canny hand, John, herruaster-u ork was?nan; 
And you amang them a', John, sae trig frae tap to toe. 
She proved to be nae journey-work, John Anderson, 
my jo. 



Tho' some folk say ye're auld, John, 1 never think ye so, 
But I think ye're ave the same to me, John Anderson, 
my jo. 

John Anderson, my jo, John, we've seen our bairns' 

bairns, 
And yet, my dear John Anderson, I'm happy in vour 

And sae are ye in mine, John — I'm 6ure ye'll ne'er nay 



And ilka lad and lass, John, in our footsteps to go, 
Makes perfect heaven here on earth, John Anderson, 
my jo. 



But note vbur head's turned bald, John, your locks art 

like the maw, 
Yet blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson, my jo, 

John Anderson, my jo, John, frae year to year we've 

And soon that year maun come, John, will bring us to 

our last : 
But let nae that affright us, John, our hearts were ne'er 

While in innocent delight we lived, John Anderson, nvy 
jo. 



167 



TAM GLEN. 

M* heart is a-breaking, dear tittie, 
Some counsel unto me come len', 

To anger them a' is a pity, 
But what will I do wi* Tarn Glen ? 

I'm thinking, wi' sic a braw fellow, 

In poortith I might mak a fen : 
What care I in riches to wallow, 
II* 1 maunna marry Tarn Glen. 

There's Lowrie the laird o' Dumeller, 
" Gude day to you, brute," he comes ben : 

He brags and he blaws o' his siller, 

But when will he dance like Tam Glen ? 

My minnie does constantly deave me, 
And bids me beware o' young men ; 

They flatter, she says, to deceive me, 
But wha can think sae o' Tam Glen ? 

My daddie says, gin I'll forsake him, 
He'll gie me gude hunder marks ten : 

But, if it's ordain'd I maun tak him, 
O wha will I get like Tam Glen ? 

Yestreen at the Valentine's dealing, 
My heart to my mou gied a sten ; 

For thrice I drew ane without failing, 
And thrice it was written Tam Glen. 

The last Hallowe'en I was waukin 
My droukit sark-sleeve, as ye ken ; 

His likeness cam up the house staukin, 
And the very grey breeks o' Tam Glen ! 

Come counsel, dear tittie, don't tarry; 

Il'l gie you my bonnie black hen, 
Gin ye will advise me to marry 

The lad I lo'e dearly, Tam Glen. 



n totter down, John, but hand in had we'll 
t the foot, John dndersc 



The stanza with which this son?, inserted by Messrs 
Brash and Reid, begins, is the chorus of the old song 
under this title ; and though perfectly suitable to that 
wicked but witty ballad, it has no accordance with the 
strain of delicate and tender sentiment of this improved 
song-. In regard to the live other additional stanzas, 
though they are in the spirit of the two stanzas that 
are unquestionably our bard's, yet every reader of dis- 
cernment will see they are by tm inferior baud; and 
the real author of them, ought neither to have given 
them, nor suffered them to be given, to the world, as 
the production of Burns. If there were no other mark 
of their spurious origin, the latter half of the third line 
in the seventh stanza, oar hearts were ne'er our foe, 
would be proof sufficient. Many are the instances in 
which our bard has adopted defective rhymes, but a 
single instance cannot be produced, in which, to pre- 
serve the rhyme, lie ha- given a feeble thought, in false 
grammar, these additional stanzas are not however 
without merit, and they may serve to prolong the plea- 
sure which every person of taste must feel, from listen. 
ingto a most happy onion of beautiful tnusV with moral 
sentiments that are singularly interesting. 



MY TOCHER'S THE JEWEL. 

O MEIKLE thinks my luve o' my beauty, 

And meikle thinks my luve o' my kin ; 
But little thinks my luve I ken brawiie, 

My tocher's the jewel has charms for him. 
It's a' for the apple he'll nourish the tree ; 

It's a' for the hinney he'll cherish the bee, 
My laddie's sae meikle in luve wi' the siller, 

He canna hae luve to spare for me. 

Your proffer o' luve's an arle penny, 

My tocher's the bargain ye wad buy; 
But an' ye be crafty, I am cunnin, 

Sae ye wi' anithur your fortune maun try. 
Ye're like to the timmer o' yon rotten wood, 

Ye're like to the bark o' yon rotten tree, 
Ye'll slip frae me like a knotless thread, 

And ye'll crack your credit wi' mae nor me, 



THEN GUIDWIFE COUNT THE 
LA WIN. 

Gane is the day and mirk's the night, 
But we'll ne'er stray for faute o' light, 
For ale and brandy's stars and moon, 
And bluid red wine's the risin sun. 

Then guidwife count the lawin, the lawin, the 

la win, 
Then guidwife count the lawin, and bring a 

coggie mair. 

There's wealth an' ease for gentlemen, 
And semple-folk maun fecht and fen ; 
But here we're a' in ae accord, 
For ilka man that's drunk's a lord. 
Then guidwife count, &c. 

My coggie is a haly pool, 
That heals the wounds o' care and dool ; 
And pleasure is a wanton trout, 
An' ye drink it a' ye'll find him out. 
Then guidwife count, &c. 



WHAT CAN A YOUNG LASSIE DO 
WI' AN AULD MAN. 

What can a young lassie, what shall a young 
lassie, 
What cati a young lassie do wi' an auld man ? 
Bad luck on the pennie that tempted my 
minnie 
To sell her poor Jenny for siller an' Ian' ! 
Bad luck on the pennie, &c 

He's always compleenin frae mornin to e'enin, 
He hosts and he hirples the weary day lang, 

He's doy'lt and he's dozin, his bluid it i* 
frozen, 
O' dreary's the night wi' a crazy auld man . 



168 



BURNS' WORKS. 



He turns and he bankers, he frets and he 
cankers ; 
I never can please him, do a' that I can ; 
He's peevish, and jealous of a' the young fel- 
lows, ' 
O, dool on the day, I met wi' an auld man ! 

My auld auntie Katie upon me takes pity, 
I'll do my endeavour to follow her plan ; 
I'll cross him, and wrack him, until I heart- 
break him, 
And then his auld brass will buy me a new 
pan. 



THE BONNIE WEE THING. 

Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing, 
Lovely wee thing, was thou mine ; 

I wad wear thee in my bosom, 
Lest my jewel I should tine. 

Wistfully I look and languish, 

In that bonnie face of thine; 
And my heart it stounds wi' anguish, 

Lest my wee thing be na mine. 

Wit, and grace, and love, and beauty, 

In ae constellation shine; 
To adore thee is my duty, 

Goddess o' this soul o' mine ! 
Bonnie wee, &c. 



O, FOR ANE AND TWENTY TAM. 

Tune- "The Moudiewort." 

An' O, for ane and twenty, Tarn ! 

An' hey, sweet ane and twenty, Tana ! 
I'll learn my kin a rattlin sang, 

An' I saw ane and twenty, Tarn. 

They snool me sair, and haud me down, 
And gar me look like bluntie, Tarn ; 

But three short years will soon wheel roun', 
And then comes ane and twenty, Tam. 
An' O, for ane, &c. 

A gleib o' Ian', a claut o' gear, 
Was left me by my auntie, Tam ; 

At kith or kin I need na spier, 
An' I saw ane and twenty, Tam. 
An' O, for ane, &c. 

They'll hae me wed a wealthy coof, 
Tho' I mysel hae plenty, Tam ; 

Bur hear'st thou laddie, there's my loof, 
I'm thine at ane and twenty, Tam ! 
An' O, for ane, &c. 



BESS AND HER SPINNING WHEEL, 

O leeze me on my spinning wheel, 
O leeze me on my rock and reel ; 
Frae tap to tae that deeds me bien, 
And haps me fiel and warm at e'en ! 
I'll set me down and sing and spin, 
While laigh descends the simmer sun, 
Blest wi' content, and milk and meal— 
O leeze me on my spinning wheel. 

On ilka hand the burnies trot, 
And meet below thy theekit cot; 
The scented birk and hawthorn, white 
Across the pool their arms unite, 
Alike to screen the birdie's nest, 
And little fishes' caller rest : 
The sun blinks kindly in the bieF, 
Where, blythe I turn my spinning wheel. 

On lofty aiks the cushats wail, 
And echo cons the doolfu' tale ; 
The lintwhites in the hazel braes, 
Delighted, rival ither's lays : 
The craik amang the claver hay, 
The paitrick whirrin o'er the ley. 
The swallow jinking round my shiel, 
Amuse me at my spinning wheel. 

Wi' sma' to sell, and less to buy, 
Aboon distress, below envy, 
O wha wad leave this humble state, 
For a' the pride of a' the great ? 
Amid their flailing, idle toys, 
Amid their cumbrous, dinsome joys, 
Can they the peace and pleasure feel, 
Of Bessy at her spinning wheel. 



COUNTRY LASSIE. 

In simmer when the hay was mawn, 

And com wav'd green in ilka field, 
While claver blooms white o'eT the lea, 

And roses blaw in ilka bield ; 
Blythe Bessie in the milking shiel, 

Says, I'll be wed come o't what will ; 
Out spake a dame in wrinkled eild, 

O' gude advisement comes nae ill. 

Its ye hae wooers mony a ane, 

And, lassie, ye're but young, ye ken ; 
Then wait a wee, and cannie wale, 

A routhie butt, a routhie ben : 
There's Johnie o* the Buskie-glen, 

Fu' is his barn, fu' is his byre ; 
Tak this frae me, my bonnie hen, 

It's plenty beets the luvei's fire. 

For Johnie o' the Buskie-glen, 

I dinna care a single flie ; 
He lo'es sae weel his craps and kye, 

He Las nae luve to spare for me : 



Cut blythe's the blink o* Robie's e'e, 
And weel I wat he lo'es me dear ; 

Ae blink o* him I wad na gie 
For Buskie-glen and a' his gear. 

O thoughtless lassie, life's a faugbt, 

The canniest gate, the strife is sair ; 
But aye fu' han't is fechtin' best, 

A hungry care's an unco care : 
But some will spend, and some will spare, 

And wilfu' folk maun hae their will ; 
Syne as ye brew, my maiden fair, 

Keep mind that ye maun drink the yill. 

O gear will buy me rigs o' land, 

And gear will buy me sheep and kye; 
But the tender heart o' leesome luve, 

The gowd and siller canna buy : 
We may be poor, Robie and I, 

Light is the burden luve lays on ; 
Content and love brings peace and joy, 

What mair hae queens upon a throne ? 



FAIR ELIZA, 

A GAELIC AIR. 

Turn again, thou fair Eliza, 

Ae kind blink before we part, 
Rew on thy despairing lover ! 

Canst thou break his faithfu' heart ! 
Turn again, thou fair Eliza; 

If to love thy heart denies, 
For pity hide the cruel sentence 

Under friendship's kind disguise ! 

Thee, dear maid, hae I offended ? 

The offence is loving thee : 
Canst thou wreck his peace for ever, 

Wha for thine wad gladly die ! 
While the life beats in my bosom, 

Thou shalt mix in ilka throe : 
Turn again, thou lovely maiden, 

Ae sweet smile on me bestow. 

Not the bee upon the blossom, 

In the pride o' sinny noon ; 
Not the little sporting fairy, 

All beneath the simmer moon ; 
Not the poet in the moment 

Fancy lightens on his e'e, 
Kens the pleasure, feels the rapture 

That thy presence gies to me. 



THE POSIE. 

O Luve will venture in, where it daur na well 

be seen, 
O luve will venture in where wisdom ance has 

been : 
But I will down yon river rove, among the 

wood sae green, 
And a' to pu* a posie to my ain dear May. 



3MS. 169 

The primrose 1 will pu', the firstling o' the 

year, 
And I will pu' the pink, the emblem o' my 

dear, 
For she's the pink o' womankind, and blooms 

without a pear : 
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 

I'll pu' the budding rose when Phebus peeps 

in view, 
For it's like a baumy kiss o' her sweet bonnie 

The hyacinth's for constancy wi' its unchang- 
ing blue : 
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 

The lily it is pure, and the lily it is fair, 
And in her lovely bosom I'll place the lily there; 
The daisy's for simplicity and unaffected air : 
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 

The hawthorn I will pu', wi' its locks o' siller 

grey, 
Where, like an aged man, it stands at break o' 

day, 
But the songster's nest within the bush I winna 

tak away : 
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 

The woodbine I will pu' when the e'ening star 

is near, 
And the diamond-draps o' dew shall be her een 

sae clear ; 
The violet's for modesty which weel she fa's 

to wear : 
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 

I'll tie the posie round wi' the silken band o' 

luve, 
And I'll place it in her breast, and I'll swear 

by a' above, 
That to my latest draught o' life the band shall 

ne'er remuve, 
And this will be a posie to my ain dear May. 



THE BANKS O' DOON. 

Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, 

How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair ; 
How can ye chant ye little birds, 

And I sae weary fu' o' care I 
Thou'll break my heart thou warbling bird, 

That wantons thro' the flowering thorn : 
Thou minds me o' departed joys, 

Departed never to return. 

Oft hae I rov'd by bonnie Doon, 

To see the rose and woodbine twine ; 
And ilka bird sang o' its luve, 

And, fondly, sae did I o' mine. 
Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, 

Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree ; 
And my fause lover stole my rose, 

But ah ! he left the thorn wi' me. 



170 



BURNS' WORKS. 



SIC A WIFE AS WILLIE HAD. 

IVillie Wasile dwalton Tweea, 
The spot they ca'd it Linkumdoddie ; 

Willie was a wabster gude, 

Cou'd stown a clue wi' ony bodie ; 

He had a wife was dour arid din, 
O Tinkler Madgie was her mither ; 

Sic a wife as Willie had, 

I wad na gie a button for her. 

She has an e'e, she has but ane, 
The cat has twa the very colour ; 

Five rusty teetn, forbye a stump, 

A clapper tongue wad deave a miller ; 

A whiskin beard ahout her mou, 

Her nose and chin they threaten ither ; 
Sic a wife, &c. 

She's bow-hough 'd, she's hein shinn'd, 
Ae limpin leg a hand-breed shorter; 

She's twisted right, she's twisted left, 
To balance fair in ilka quarter: 

She has a hump upon her breast, 

The twin o' that upon her shouther j 
Sic a wife, &c. 

Auld baudrans by the ingle sits, 

And wi' her loof her face a-washin ; 

But Willie's wife is nae sae trig, 

She dights her grunzie wi' a hushion ; 

Her walie nieves like midden creels, 
Her face wad fyle the Logan- water ; 

Sic a wife as Willie had, 

I wad na gie a button for her. 



GLOOMY DECEMBER. 

Ance mair I hail thee, thou gloomy December, 

Ance mair I hail thee, wi' sorrow and care ; 
Sad was the parting thou makes me remember, 

Earting wi' Nancy, Oh ! ne'er to meet mair. 
Fond lovers parting is sweet painful pleasure, 

Hope beaming mild on the soft parting hour; 
But the dire feeling, O farewell for ever, 

Is anguish unmingl'd and agony pure. 

Wild as the winter now tearing the forest, 

'Till the last leaf o' the summer is flown, 
Such is the tempest has shaken my bosom, 

Since my last hope and last comfort is gone ; 
Still as I hail thee, thou gloomy December, 

Still shall I hail thee wi' sorrow and care ; 
For sad was the parting thou makes me re- 
member, 

Farting wi' Nancy, Oh, ne'er to meet mair. 



EVAN BANKS. 

Slow spreads the gloom my soul desires, 
The sun from India's shore retires ; 
To Evan banks, with temp'rate ray, 
Home of my youth, it leads the day. 
Oh ! banks to me for ever dear ! 
Oh ! stream whose murmurs still I hear ! 
All, all my hopes of bliss reside, 
Where Evan mingles with the Clyde. 

And she, in simple beauty drest, 
Whose image lives within my breast ; 
Who trembling heard my piercing sigh, 
And long pursu'd me with her eye ! 
Does she, with heart unchang'd as mine, 
Oft in the vocal bowers recline ? 
Or where yon grot O'erhangs the tide, 
Muse while the Evan seeks the Clyde. 

Ye lofty banks that Evan bound ! 
Ye lavish woods that wave around, 
And o'er the stream your shadows throw, 
Which sweetly winds so far below ; 
What secret charm to mem'ry brings, 
All that on Evan's border springs? 
Sweet banks ! ye bloom by Mary's side : 
Blest stream, she views thee haste to Clyde. 

Can all the wealth of India's coast 

Atone for years in absence lost? 

Return, ye moments of delight, 

With richer treasures bless my sight ! 

Swift from this desert let me part, 

And fly to meet a kindred heart ! 

Nor more may aught my steps divide 

From that dear stream which flows to Clyde, 



WILT THOU BE MY DEARIE. 

Wilt thou be my dearie ; 

When sorrow wrings thy gentle heart, 
O wilt thou let me cheer thee ; 

By the treasure of my soul, 
And that's the love I bear thee : 

I swear and vow, that only thou 
Shall ever be my dearie. 

Only thou I swear and vow, 

Shall ever be my dearie. 

Lassie, say thou lo'es me : 

Or, if thou wilt na be my ain, 
Sae na thou'lt refuse me ; 

If it winna, canna be, 
Thou, for thine, may choose me : 

Let me, lassie, quickly die, 
Trusting that thou lo'es me, 

Lassie, let me quickly die, 

Trusting that thou lo'es me. 



171 



SHE'S FAIR AND FAUSE. 

She's fair and fause that causes my smart, 

I lo'ed her meikle and lang ; 
She's broken her vow, she's broken my heart, 

And I may e'en gae hang. 
A coof cam in with routh o' gear. 
And I hae tint my dearest dear, 
But woman is hut warld's gear, 

Sae let the bonnie lass gang. 

Whae'er ye be that woman love, 

To this be never blind, 
Nae ferlie 'tis tho' fickle she prove, 

A woman has T t by kind : 
O woman, lovely woman, fair ! 
An angel form's faun to thy share, 
'Twad been o'er meikle to gien thee mair, 

I mean an angel mind. 



AFTON WATER. 

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green 

braes, 
Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise ; 
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, 
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her 

dream. 

Thou stock dove whose echo resounds thro' the 

glen, 
Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den, 
Thou green- crested lapwing thy screaming 

forbear, 
I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair. 

How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring hills, 
Far rnark'd with courses of clear winding rills ; 
There daily I wander as noon rises high, 
My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye. 

How pleasant thy banks and green valleys be- 
low, 

Where wild in the woodlands the primroses 
blow : 

There oft as mild evening weeps over the lea, 

The sweet-scented biik shades my Mary and 



Thy crystal stream, Alton, how lovely it glides, 
And winds by the cot where my Mary resides ; 
How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave, 
As gathering sweet flowerets she stems thy 
clear wave. 

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green 

braes, 
Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays; 
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, 
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her 

dream. 



BONNIE BELL. 

The smiling Spring comes in rejoicing, 

And surly Winter grimly flies ; 
Now crystal clear are the falling waters , 

And bonnie blue are the sunny skies; 
Fresh o'er the mountains breaks forth the 
morning, _ 

The ev'ning gilds the ocean's swell ; 
All creatures joy in the sun's returning, 

And I rejoice in my bonnie Bell. 

The flowry Spring leads sunny Summer, 

And yellow Autumn presses near, 
Then in his turn comes gloomy Winter, 

'Till smiling Spring again appear. 
Thus seasons dancing, life advancing, 

Old Time and Nature their changes tell, 
But never ranging, still unchanging 

I adore my bonnie Bell. 



THE GALLANT WEAVER. 

Where Cart rins rowin to the sea, 
By mony a flow'r and spreading tree, 
There lives a lad, the lad for me, 
He is a gallant weaver. 

Oh I had wooers aught or nine, 
They gied me rings and ribbons fine ; 
And I was fear'd my heart would tine, 
And I gied it to the weaver. 

My daddie sign'd my tocher-band 
To gie the lad that has the land, 
But to my heart I'll add my hand, 
And give it to the weaver. 

While birds rejoice in leafy bowers ; 
While bees delight in opening flowers ; 
While corn grows green in simmer showers, 
I'll love my gallant v 



LOUIS, WHAT RECK I BY THEfi, 

Louis, what reck I by thee, 

Or Geordie on his ocean ; 
Dyvor beggar louns to me, 

I reign in Jeanie's bosom. 

Let her crown my love her law, 

And in her breast enthrone me: 
Kings and nations, swith awa! 

Reif randies I disown ye ! 



* In eome editions sailor is substituted for « 



172 



BURNS' WORKS. 



FOR THE SAKE OF SOMEBODY. 

My heart is sair, I dare nae tell, 

My heart is sair for somebody ; 
I could wake a winter night 
For the sake of somebody. 
Oh-hon ! for somebody ! 
Oh-hey ! for somebody • 
I could range the world around, 
For the sake of somebody. 

Ye powers that smile on virtuous love, 

O sweetly smile on somebody ! 
Frae ilka danger kee« him free, 
And send me safe my somebody 
Oh-hon ! for somebody ! 
Oh-hey ! for somebody! 
I wad do — what wad I not, 
For the sake of somebody ! 



THE LOVELY LASS OF INVER. 

NESS. 

The lovely lass o' Inverness, 

Nae joy nor pleasure can she see ; 
For e'en and morn she cries, alas ! 

And aye the saut tear blins her e'e ; 
Drumossie moor, Drumossie day, 

A waefu' day it was to me ; 
For there I lost my father dear, 

My father dear, and brethren three. 

Their winding sheet the bloody clay, 

Their graves are growing green to see ; 
And by them lies the dearest lad 

That ever blest a woman's e'e ! 
Now vvae to thee, thou cruel lord, 

A bluidy man I trow thou be ; 
For mony a heart thou hast made sair, 

That ne'er did wrong to thine or thee. 



A MOTHER'S LAMENT FOR THE 
DEATH OF HER SON. 






Finlayston House." 



Fate gave the word, the arrow sped, 

And pierced my darling's heart : 
And with him all the joys are fled 

Life can to me impart. 
By cruel hands the sapling drops, 

In dust dishonour'd laid : 
So fell the pride of all my hopes, 

My age's future shade. 

The mother linnet in the brake 
Bewails her ravished young ; 

So I for my lost darling's sake, 
Lament the live-day long. 

Death, oft I've fear'd thy fatal blow, 
Now fond I bare my breast, 



O do thou kindly lay me low 
With him I love at rest ! 



O MAY, THY MORN. 

O May, thy morn was ne'er sae sweet, 
As the mirk night o' December; 

For sparkling was the rosy wine, 
And private was the chamber : 

And dear was she I darna name. 
But I will aye remember 
And dear, &c. 

And here's to them, that like oursel, 
Can push about the jorum ; 

And here's to them that wish us weel, 
May a' that's gude watch o'er them ; 

And here's to them, we darna tell, 
The dearest o' the quorum, 
And here's to, &c. 



O WHAT YE WHAS IN YON 
TOWN. 

O what ye wha's in yon town, 

Ye see the e'ening sun upon, 
The fairest dame's in yon town, 

That e'ening sun is shining on. 

Now haply down yon gay green shaw, 
She wanders by yon spreading tree ; 

How blest ye flow'rs that mind her blaw, 
Ye catch the glances o' her e'e. 

How blest ye birds that round her sing, 
And welcome in the blooming year, 

And doubly welcome be the spring, 
The season to my Lucy dear. 

The sun blinks blythe on yon town, 
And on yon bonnie braes of Ayr ; 

But my delight in yon town, 
And dearest bliss is Lucy fair. 

Without my love, not a' the charms, 
O' paradi?e could yield me joy i 

But gie me Lucy in my arms, 

And welcome Lapland's dreary sky. 

My cave wad be a lover's bower, 
Tho' raging winter rent the air ; 

And she a lovely little flower, 

That I wad tent and shelter there. 

O sweet is she in yon town, 

Yon sinkin sun's gane down upon ; 

A fairer than's in yon town, 

His setting beam ne'er shone upon. 

If angry fate has sworn my foe, 

And" suffering I amdooni'd to bear j 



POEMS. 



173 



I careless quit aught else below, 
But spare me, spare me, Lucy dear. 

For while life's dearest blood is warm, 
Ae thought frae her shall ne'er depart, 

And she — as fairest is her form ! 
She has the truest kindest heart.* 



A RED, RED ROSE. 

O my love's like a red, red rose, 
That's newly sprung in June. 

my love's like the melody 
That's sweetly play'd in tune. 

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, 

So deep in love am I ; 
And I will love thee still, my dear, 

'Till a' the seas gang dry. 

'Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, 
And the rocks melt wi' the sun ; 

1 will love thee still, my dear, 

While the sands o' life shall run. 

And fare thee weel, my only love, 
And fare thee weel a while ! 

And I will come again, my love, 
Tho' it were ten thousand mile. 



A VISION. 

As I stood by yon roofless tower, 
Where the wa'-flower scents the dewy air, 

Where th' howlet mourns in her ivy bower, 
And tells the midnight moon her care. 

The winds were laid, the air was still, 
The stars they shot alang the sky ; 

The fox was howling on the hill, 
And the distant echoing glens reply. 

The stream adown its hazelly path, 
Was rushing by the ruin'd wa's, 

Hasting to join the sweeping Nith,f 
Whase distant roaring swells and fa's. 

The cauld blue north was streaming forth 
Her lights, wi' hissing eerie din ; 

Athort the lift they start and shift, 
Like fortune's favours, tint as win. 



* The heroine of this song, Mrs O. (formerly Miss L. 
J.) died lately in Lisbon. This most accomplished and 
- — is worthy of this beautiful strain 



bility, 



„ „thel 



willc. 



of se 
attractii 
the charack 
observed by 01 

tODg. 

+ Variation. To join 



i. The song is written in 
usband, as the reader will have 
letter to Mr Syme inclosing this 



By heedless chance I turn'd mine eyes,* 
And, by the moon-beam, shook, to see 

A stern and stalwart ghaist arise, 
Attir'd as minstrels wont to be. 

Had I a statue been o' stane, 

His darin look had daunted me ; 

And on his bonnet grav'd was plain, 
The sacred posie — Liberty ! 

And frae his harp sic strains did flow, 

Might roused the slumb'ring dead to hear ^ 

But oh, it was a tale of woe, 
As ever met a Briton's ear I 

He sang wi' joy his former day, 
He weeping wail'd his latter times ; 

But what he said it was nae play, 
I winna ventur't in my rhymes, f 



COPY OF A POETICAL ADDRESS 



MR WILLIAM TYTLER, 

WITH THE PRESENT OF THE BARD'S PICTURE, 

Revered defender of beauteous Stuart, 
Of Stuart, a name once respected, 

A name, which to love was the mark of a true 
heart, 
But now 'tis despised and neglected : 

Tho' something like moisture conglobes in my 
eye, 
Let no one misdeem me disloyal ; 
A poor friendless wand'rer may well claim a 
sigh,- 
Still more, if that wand'rer were royal. 



My fathers, that n; 
throne ; 
My fathers have fallen to right it 



e rever'd o 



* Variation. Now looking over firth and fauld, 
Her horn the pale-faced Cynthia rear'dj 
When, lo, in torin of minstrel auld, 
A stern and stalwart ghaist appear'd. 
+ This poem, an imperfect copy of which was printed 
in Johnson's Museum, is here given from the poet's MS. 
with his last corrections. The scenery so finely de- 
scribed is taken from nature. The poet is supposed to 
be musing by night on the banks of the river Cluden, 
and by the ruins of Lincluden- Abbey, founded in the 
twelfth century, in the reign of Malcolm IV. of whose 
present situation the reader may find some account in 
Pennant's Tour in Scotland, or Grose's Antiquities of 
that division of the island. Such a time and such a place 
are well fitted for holding converse with aerial beings. 
Though this poem has a political bias, yet it maybe 
presumed that no reader of taste, whatever his opinions 
Id forgive it being omitted. Our poet's pru- 



dence suppressed the soul; ot l,il,,'itii, perhaps fortu 

„_:„ fo 

ther, e 



lately for his reputation. It may he questioned whe- 



174 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Those fathers would spurn their degenerate 
son, 
That name should he seoffingly slight it. 

Still in prayers for King George I most heart- 
ily join, 
The Queen and the rest of the gentry, 
Be they wise, be they foolish, is nothing of 
mine ; 
Their title's avow'd by the country. 

But why of that epoeha make such a fuss, 



But loyalty, truce ! we're on dangerous ground, 
Who knows how the fashions may alter, 

The doctrine, to day, that is loyalty sound, 
To-morrow may bring us a halter. 

I send you a trifle, a head of a bard, 
A trifle scarce worthy your care ; 

But accept it, good sir, as a mark of regard, 
Sincere as a saint's dying prayer. 

Now life's chilly evening dim shades on your 
eye, 

And ushers the long dreary night : 
But you, like the star that athwart gilds the sky, 

Your course to the latest is bright. 

My muse jilted me here, and turned a cor- 
ner on me, and I have not got again into her 
good graces. Do me the justice to believe me 
sincere in my grateful remembrance of the 
many civilities you have honoured me with 
since I came to Edinburgh, and in assuring 
you that I have the honour to be, 
Revered Sir, 
Your obliged and very humble Servant, 
R BURNS 
Edinburgh, 1787. 



CALEDONIA. 

Tune.—" Caledonian Hunt's Delight." 

There was once a day, but old Time then 
was young, 
That brave Caledonia, the chief of her line, 
From some of your northern deities sprung, 
( Who knows not that brave Caledonia's di- 
vine?) 
From Tweed to the Orcades was her domain, 
To hunt, or to pasture, or to do what she 
would : 
Her heavenly relations there fixed her reign, 
And pledg'd her their godheads to warrant 
it good. 

A lambkin in peace, but a lion in war, 

The pride of her kindred the heroine grew : 
Her grandsire, old Odin, triumphantly 



" Whoe'er shall provoke thee th' encounter 
shall rue ! 
With tillage or pasture at times she would 
sport, 
To feed her fair flocks by her green rustling 
corn ; 
But chiefly the woods were her fav'rite resort, 
Her darling amusement, the hounds and the 
horn. 



Long quiet she 
steers 



eigned ; 'till thitherward 



of bold eagles from Adria's 
strand :* 
Repeated, successive, for many long years, 
They darken'd the air, and they plundered 
the land : 
Their pounces were murder, and terror their 
cry, 
They'd conquer'd and ruin'd a world beside : 
She took to her hills and her arrows let fly, 
The daring invaders they fled or they died. 

The fell Harpy-raven took wing from the 
north, 
The scourge of the seas, and the dread of 
the shore ;f 
The wild Scandinavian boar issued forth 

To wanton in carnage, and wallow in gore : J 
O'er countries and kingdoms their fury pre- 
vail'd, 
No arts could appease them, nor arms could 
repel ; 
But brave Caledonia in vain they assail'd, 
As Largs well can witness, and Loncartie 
tell.§ 

The Cameleon-savage disturb'd her repose, 

With tumult, disquiet, rebellion and strife; 
Provoked beyond bearing, at last she arose, 

And robb'd him at once of his hopes and his 
life : || 
The Anglian lion, the terror of France, 

Oft prowling, ensanguin'd the Tweed's sil- 
ver flood ; 
But taught by the bright Caledonian lance, 

He learned to fear in his own native wood. 

Thus bold, independent, unconquer'd and free, 
Her bright course of glory for ever shall 
run : 
For brave Caledonia immortal must be; 

I'll prove it from Euclid as clear as the sun : 
Rectangle triangle, the figure we'll choose, 
The upright is Chance, and old Time is the 
base ; 
But brave Caledonia's the hypothenuse ; 
Then ergo she'll match them, and match 
them always.^ 



The Romans. f The Saxons. t The Danes- 
Two famous battles, iu which the Danes or Norwe- 
gians were defeated. 
|| The Highlanders of the Isles. 

IT This singular figure of poetry, taken from the 
mathematics, refers to the famous proposition of Py. 
thagoras, the 47tli of Euclid. In a light-angled triangle, 
the square of the hypothenuse is always equal to the 
equares of the two other sides. 



175 



THE FOLLOWING POEM 

WAS WRITTEN TO A GENTLEMAN WHO HAD SENT 
HIM A NEWSPAPER, AND OFFERED TO CON- 
TINUE IT FREE OF EXPENSE. 

Kind sir, I've read your paper through, 

And faith, to me, 'twas really knew ! 

How guessed ye, sir, what maist I wanted ? 

This moiiy a day I've grain'd and gaunted, 

To ken what French mischief was brewin' ; 

Or what the drumlie Dutch were doin' ; 

That vile doup skelper, Emperor Joseph, 

If Venus yet had got his nose off; 

Or how the collieshangie works 

Atween the Russian and the Turks ; 

Or if the Swede, before he halt, 

Would play anither Charles the Twalt! 

If Denmark, ony body spak o't ; 

Or Poland, wha had now the tack o't ; 
t How cut-throat Prussian blades were hingin'; 

How libbet Italy was singin ; 

If Spaniard, Portuguese, or Swiss, 

Were sayin or takin ought amiss : 

Or how our merry lads at hame, 

In Britain's court kept up the game : 

How royal George, the Lord leuk o'er bim ! 

Was managing St Stephen's quorum ; 
; If sleekit Chatham Will was livin, 

Or glaikit Charlie got his nieve in ; 

How daddie Burke the plea was cookin, 

If Warren Hastings' neck was yeukin ; 

How cesses, stents, and fees were raxed, 

Or if bare a — yet were taxed ; 

The news o' princes, dukes, and earls, 

Pimps, sharpers, bawds, and opera-girls ; 

If that daft Euckie, Geordie Wales, 

Was threshin still at hizzies' tails, 

Or if he was growin oughtlins douser, 

And no a perfect kintra cooser. — 

A* this and mair I never heard of; 

And, but for you, I might despair'd of. 

So gratefu', back your news I send you, 

And pray, a' guid things may attend you ! 

ELLlSLAND.Mnnday Morning, 1790. 



ON PASTORAL POETRY. 

Hail Poesie ! thou nymph reserved 1 

In chase o' thee, what crowds hae swerved 

Frae common sense, or sunk enerved 

'Mang heaps o' clavers ; 
And och ! o'er aft thy joes hae starved, 

'Mid a' thy favours ! 

Say, Lassie, why thy train amang, 
' While loud the trump's heroic clang, 
And sock or buskin skelp alang 

To death or marriage ; 



Scarce ane has tried the shepherd-sang 
But wi' miscarriage ? 

In Homer's craft Jock Milton thrives ; 
Eschylus* pen Will Shakespeare drives ; 
Wee Pope, the knurlin, 'till him rives 

Horatian fame ; 
In thy sweet sang, Barbauld, survives 

Even Sappho's flame. 

But thee, Theocritus, wha matches? 
They're no herd's ballats, Maro's catches; 
Squire Pope but busks his skinlin patches 

O* heathen tatters : 
I pass by hunders, nameless wretches, 

That ape their betters. 

In this braw age o' wit and lear, 

Will nane the Shepherd's whistle mair 

Blaw sweetly in its native air 

And rural grace; 
And wi' the far-famed Grecian share 

A rival place ? 

Yes ! there is ane ; a Scottish callan ! 
There's ane ; come forrit, honest Allan ! 
Thou need na jouk behint the hallan, 

A chiel so clever ; 
The teeth o' time may gnaw Tamtallan, 

But thou's for ever. 

Thou paints auld nature to the nines, 

In thy sweet Caledonian lines ; 

Nae gowden stream thro' myrtles twines, 

Where Philomel, 
While nightly breezes sweep the vines, 

Her griefs will tell ! 

In gowany glens thy burnie strays, 
Where bonnie lasses bleach their claes ; 
Or trots by hazelly shaws or braes, 

Wi' hawthorns gray, 
Where blackbirds join the shepherd's lays 

At close o' day. 

Thy rural loves are nature's sel ; 

Nae bombast spates o' nonsense swell ; 

Nae snap conceits, but that sweet spell 

O' witchin' love, 
That charm that can the strongest quell, 

The sternest move. 



THE BATTLE OF SHERIFF-MUIR, 



" O CiM ye here the fight to shun, 
Or cerd the sheep wi' me, man ? 

Or were ye at the Sherra-muir, 
And did the battle see, man ? 

I saw the battle sair and teugh, 

And reekin-red ran monie a sheugh, 



176 



BURNS' WORKS. 



My heart for fear gae sough for sough, 
To hear the thuds, and see the cluds 
O' clans frae woods, in tartan duds, 
Wha glaum'd at kingdoms three, man. 

The red- coat lads wi' black cockades, 
To meet them were na slaw, man ; 

They rush'd and push'd, and bluid outgush'd, 
And mony a bouk did fa', man : 

The great A: gyle led on his files, 

I wat they glanced twenty miles ! 

They hack'd and hash'd, while broadswords 
clasb'd, 

And thro' they dash'd, and hew'd and smash'dj 
Till fey men died awa, mail. 

But had you seen the philibegs, 

And skyrin tartan trews, man, 
When in the teeth they dar'd our whigs, 

And covenant true blues, man ; 
In lines extended lang ami large, 
When bayonets opposed the targe, 
And thousands hastened to the charge, 
Wi' highland wrath they frae the sheath, 
Drew blades o' death, till out o' breath, 

They fled like frighted doos, man. 

" O how deil Tam can that be true ? 

The chase gaed frae the north, man •, 
I saw myself they did pursue 

The horsemen back to Forth, man ; 
And at Dumbiane, in my ain sight, 
They took the brig wi' a' their might, 
And straught to Stirling winged their flight ; 
But, cursed lot ! the gates were shut ; 
And mony a hunted pour red coat 

For fear amaist did swarf, man." 

My sister Kate came up the gate 

Wi' crowdie unto me, man : 
She swoor she saw some rebels run, 

Frae Perth unto Dundee, man ; 
Their left-hand general had nae skill, 
The Angus lads had nae good will 
That day their neebor's blood to spill ; 
For fear by foes, that they should lose 
Their cogs o' brose ; all crying woes, 

And so it goes, you see, man. 

They've lost some gallant gentlemen, 
Amang the Highland clans man ; 

I fear my Lord Panmure is slain. 
Or fallen in whiggish hands, man 

Now wad ye sing this double fight, 

Some fell for wrang, and some for right ; 

But mony bade the world gude-night ; 

Then ye may tell, how pell and in ell, 

By red claymores, and muskets, knell, 

Wi' dying yell, the tories fell, 
And whigs to hell did flee, man.* 

t bard made his 



SKETCH 
NEW YEAR'S DAY. 

TO MRS DUNLOP. 

This day, Time winds th' exhausted chain, 
To run the twelvemonths' length again : 
I see the old bald-pated fellow, 
With ardent eyes, complexion sallow 
Adjust the unimpair'd machine, 
To wheel the equal, dull routine. 

The absent lover, minor heir, 

In vain assail him with their prayer. 

Deaf as my friend he sees them press, 

Nor makes the hour one moment less. 

Will you (the Major's with the hounds, 

The happy tenants share~his rounds; 

Coila's fair Rachel's care to-day,* 

And blooming Keith's engaged with Gray;) 

From housewife cares a minute borrow — 

— That grandchild's cap will do to-morrow— « 

And join with me a moralizing, 

This day's propitious to be wise in. 

First, what did yesternight deliver; 

" Another year is gone for ever." 

And what is this day's strong suggestion ! 

" The passing moment's all we rest on !" 

Rest on — for what ! What do we here ? 

Or why regard the passing year ? 

Will time, amus'd with proverb'd lore, 

Add to our date one minute more ? 

A few days may — a few years must — 

Repose us in the silent dust. 

Then, is it wise to damp our bliss ? 

Yes, all such reasonings are amiss! 

The voice of nature loudly cries, 

And many a message from the skies, 

That something in us never dies : 

That on this frail, uncertain state, 

Hang matters of eternal weipht ; 

That future-life in worlds unknown 

Must take its hue from this alone : 

Whether as heavenly glory bright, 

Or dark as misery's woeful night — 

Since then, my honour'd first of friends, 

On this poor being all depends : 

Let us th' important now employ, 

And live as those who never die. 

Tho' you, with days and honours crown'd, 

Witness that filial circle round, 

(A sight life's sorrows to repulse, 

A sight pale envy to convulse) 

Others now claim your chief regard 

Yourself, you wait your bright reward 



g lady was drawing a picture of Coila 
1, see page 10S. 



EXTEMPORE, 



ON THE LATE ME WILLIAM SMELLIE, * 



41TJHOROFTUKPHILOSOPHYOFNATURAI.HIST0RY, 

AND MEMBER OF THE ANTIQUARIAN AND 

ROYAL SOCIETIES OF EDINBURGH. 

To Cioehallan came 
The old c<xs'd hat, the grey surtout, the 

same; 
His bristling beard just rising in its might, 
'Twas four long nights and days to shaving 

night, 
His uncombed grizzly locks wild-staring, 

thatch'd, 
A head for thought profound and clear, un- 
matched ; 
Yet, tho' his caustic wit was biting, rude, 
His heart was warm, benevolent and good. 



POETICAL INSCRIPTION, 



AN ALTAR TO INDEPENDENCE, 



Thou of an independent mind, 

With soul resolved, with soul resigned ; 

Prepared power's proudest frown to brave, 

Who wilt not be, nor have a slave ; 

Virtue alone who dost revere, 

Thy own reproach alone dost fear, 

Approach this shrine, and worship here. 



THE DEATH OF MR RIDDEL. 

No more, ye warblers of the wood, no more, 
Nor pour your descant grating on my ear ; 
Thou young-eyed Spring thy charms I can- 
not bear ; 
More welcome were to me grim Winter's 
wildest roar. 

How can ye please, ye flowers, with all your 
dies? 
Ye blow upon the sod that wraps my 
friend : 



■* Mr Smellie, and our poet, were both members of 
a club iu Edinburgh, under the name of Crochallan Fen- 
eibles. 



MS. 177 

How can I to the tuneful strain attend ? 
That strain pours round th' untimely tomb 
where Riddel lies.* 

Yes, pour, ye warblers, pour the notes of woe, 
And soothe the Virtues weeping on this bier; 
The Man of AVoi th, and has not left his peer, 

Is in his • narrow house' for ever darkly low. 



Thee, Spring, again with joy shall others greet; 
Me, mem'ry of my loss will only meet. 



A LADY FAMED FOR HER CAPRICE. 

How cold is that bosom which folly once fir'd. 
How pale is that cheek where the rouge 
lately glisten'd : 
How silent that tongue which the echoes oft 
tired, 
How dull is that ear which to flattery so 
listened. 

If sorrow and anguish their exit await, 

From friendship and dearest affection re- 
moved ; 

How doubly severer, Eliza, thy fate, 

Thou diedst unwept, as thoulivedst unloved. 

Loves, graces, and virtues, I call not on you ; 

So shy, grave, and distant, ye shed not a 
tear : 
Bat come, all ye offspring of folly so true, 

And flowers let us cull for Eliza's cold bier. 

We'll search through the garden for each silly 
flower, 
We'll roam through the forest for each idle 
weed ; 
But chiefly the nettle, so typical, shower, 
For none e'er approach'd her but rued the 
rash deed. 

We'll sculpture the marble, we'll measure the 
lay; 
Here Vanity strums on her idiot lyre ; 
There keen indignation shall dart on her prey, 
Which spurning contempt shall redeem from 
his ire. 

THE EPITAPH. 

Here lies, now a prey to insulting neglect, 
What once was a butterfly gay in life'a 
beam : 

Want only of wisdom denied her respect, 
Want only of goodness denied her esteem. 



• Robert Riddel, Esq 
character, and <me to \ 
under many obligation: 



178. 



BURNS' WORKS. 



ANSWER TO A MANDATE 

SENT BY THE SURVEYOR OF THE WINDOWS, 
CARRIAGES, & c . TO EACH FARMER, ORDERING 
HIM TO SEND A SIGNED LIST OF HIS HORSES, 
SERVANTS, WHEEL -CARRIAGES, & c . AND WHE- 
THER HE WAS A MARRIED MAN OR A BACHE- 
LOR, AND WHAT CHILDREN THEY HAD. 

Sir, as your mandate did request, 
I send you here a faithfu' list, 
My horses, servants, carts, and graith, 
To which I'm free to tak my aith. 
Imprimis, then, for carriage cattle, 
I hae four brutes o' gallant mettle, 
As ever drew before a pettle. 
My hand-afore,* a guid auld has been, 
And wight and wilfu' a' his days seen ; 
My hand-a-hin,\ a guid brown filly, 
Wha aft has borne me safe frae Killie ; i 
And your auld borough mony a time, 
In days when riding was nae crime : 
My fur-a-hin, || a guid, grey beast, 
As e'er in tug or tow was traced : 
The fourth, a Highland Donald hasty, 
A d-mn'd red-wud, Kilburnie blastie. 
For-by a cowte, of cowtes the wale, 
As ever ran before a tail ; 
An' he be spared to be a beast, 
He'll draw me fifteen pund at least. 

Wheel carriages I hae but few, 
Three carts, and twa are feckly new, 
An auld wheel-barrow, mair for token, 
Ae leg and baith the trams are broken ; 
I made a poker o' the spindle, 
And my auld mither brunt the trundle. 
For men, I've three mischievous boys, 
Run-deils for rantin and for noise ; 
A gadsman ane, a thresher t'other, 
Wee Davoc bauds the nowt in fother. 
I rule them, as I ought, discreetly, 
And often labour them completely, 
And aye on Sundays duly nightly, 
I on the questions tairge them tightly, 
'Till, faith ; wee Davoc's grown sae gleg, 
(Tho' scarcely langer than my leg) 
He'll screed you aff effectual calling, 
As fast as ony in the dwalling. 

I've nane in female servant station, 
Lord keep me aye frae a' temptation ! 
1 hae nae wife, and that my bliss is, 
And ye hae laid nae tax on misses ; 
For weans I'm mair than weel contented, 
Heaven sent me ane mair than I wanted: 
My sonsie, smirking, dear-bought Bess, 
She stares the daddie in her face, 
Enough of ought ye like but grace. 
But her, my bonny, sweet, wee lady, 
I've said enough for her already, 



* The fore-horse on the left-hand, in the plough, 
i- The hindmost on the left-hand, in the plough. 
t Kilmarnock. 
11 The hindmost on the right hand, in the plough. 



And if ye tax her or her mither, 

By the L— d ye'se get them a' thegither! 

And now, remember, Mr Aiken, 
Nae kind of license out I'm taking. 
Thro' dirt and dub for life I'll paidle, 
Ere I sae dear pay for a saddle ; 
I've sturdy stumps, the Lord be thankit I 
And a' my gates on foot I'll shank it. 

This list wi' my ain hand I've wrote it, 
The day and date as under notet ; 
Then know all ye whom it concerns, 
Subscripsi huic, 

ROBERT BURNS 



SONG. 

Nae gentle dames, tho' e'er sae fairj* 
Shall ever be my muse's care ; 
Their titles a' are empty show ; 
Gie me my highland lassie, O. 

Within the glen sae bushy, O, 
Aboon the plain sae rushy, O, 
I set me down, wi' right good will, 
To sing my highland lassie, O. 

were yon hills and valleys mine, 
Yon palace and yon gardens fine ! 
The world then the love should know 

1 bear my highland lassie, O. - 

Within the glen, &c 

But fickle fortune frowns on me, 
And I maun cross the raging sea ; 
But while my crimson currents flow, 
I'll love my highland lassie, O. 
Within the glen, &c 

Altho' thro' foreign climes I range, 
I know her heart will never change, 
For her bosom burns with honour's glow 
My faithful highland lassie, O. 
Within the glen, &c. 

For her I'll dare the billow's roar, 
For her I'll trace a distant shore, 
That Indian wealth may lustre throw, 
Around my highland lassie, O. 
Within the glen, &c 

She has my heart, she has my hand, 
By sacred truth and honour's band ! 
' Till the mortal stroke shall lay me low, 
I'm thine my highland lassie, O. 
Within the glen, &c. 

Farewell the glen sae bushy, O 
Farewell the plain sae rushy, O 



* Gentle is used here in opposition to m 
Scottish and old English sense of <he word, 
dames — No lush-blooded. 



ipte, m t 
*>ae g-en 



POEMS. 



170 



To other lands I now must go 
To sing my highland lassie, O.* 



IMPROMPTU, 



- S BIRTH DAY. 



4th November, 1793. 

Old Winter with his frosty beard, 
Thus once to Jove his prayer preferrM; 
" What have I done of all the year, 
To bear this hated doom severe? 
My cheerless sons no pleasure know; 
Night's horrid car drags, dreary, slow : 
My dismal months no joys are crowning, 
But spleeny English hanging, drowning. 

Now, Jove, for once be mighty civil ; 
To counterbalance all this evil ; 
Give me, and I've no more to say, 
Give me Maria's natal day ! 
That brilliant gift will so enrich me, 
Spring, Summer, Autumn cannot match me -. 
" 'Tie done !" says Jove ; so ends my story, 
And Winter once rejoiced in glory. 



ADDRESS TO A LADY. 

Oh wert thou in the cauld blast, 

On yonder lea, on yonder lea. 
My plaidi-e to the angry airt, 

I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee : 
Or did misfortune's bitter storms 

Around thee blaw, around thee blaw, 
Thy bield hould be my bosom, 

To share it a', to share it a'. 

Or were I in the wildest waste, 

Sae black and bare, sae black and bare, 
The desert were a paradise, 

If thou wert there, if thou wert there. 
Or were I monarch o' the globe, 

Wi' thee to reign, \vi' thee to reign ; 
The brightest jewel in my crown 

Wad be my queen, wad be my queen. 



TO A YOUNG LADY, 

MISS JESSY L , OF DUMFRIES; 

WITH BOOKS WHICH THE BABD PRESENTED HER. 

Thine be the volumes, Jessy fair, 
And with them take the poet's prayer ; 
That fate may in her fairest page, 
With every kindliest, best presage 



Of future bliss, enrol thy name : 
With native worth, and spotless fame, 
And wakeful caution, still aware 
Of ill — but chief, man's felon snare j 
All blameless joys on earth we find, 
And all the treasures of the mind— 
These be thy guardian and reward ; 
So prays thy faithful friend, the bard. 



SONNET, 

WRITTEN ON THE 25th JANUARY 1793, THK 

BJRTH-DAY OF THE AUTHOR, ON HEARING A 

THRUSH SING IN A MORNING WALK. 

Sing on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough, 
Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain, 
See aged Winter 'mid his surly reign, 

At thy blythe carol clears his furrowed brow. 

So in lone poverty's dominion drear, 

Sits meek content with light unanxious heart, 
Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them 
part, 

Nor asks if they bring aught to hope or fear. 

I thank thee, Author of this opening day I 
Thou whose bright sun now gilds yon ori- 
ent skies ! 
Riches denied, thy boon was purer joys, 

What wealth could never give nor take away ! 

Yet come, thou child of poverty and care, 
The mite high heaven bestowed, that mite 
with thee I'll share. 



EXTEMPORE, 

TO MR S — E, 

ON REFUSING TO DINE WITH HIM, AFTER HAVING 

BEEN PROMISED THE FIRST OF COMPANY, 

AND THE FIRST OF COOKERY, 17th 

1795. 



No more of your guests, be they titled or not, 
And cookery the first in the nation : 

Who is proof to thy personal converse and wit, 
Is proof to all other temptation. 



To Mr S— E, 

WITH A PRESENT OF A DOZEN OF PORTER. 

O had the malt thy strength of mind, 
Or hops the flavour of thy wit ; _ 

"Twere drink for first of human kind, 
A gift that e'en for S— e were fit 

Jerusalem Tavern, Dumfries. 
M2 



180 BURNS' WORKS. 

THE DUMFRIES VOLUNTEERS. 



" Push about the Jorum." 



April, 1795. 



Does haughty Gaul invasion threat? 

Then let the loons beware, sir, 
There's wooden walls upon our seas, 

And volunteers on shore, sir. 
The Nith shall run to Corsincon,* 

And Criffel sink in Sol way ,f 
Ere we permit a foreign foe 

On British ground to rally ! 

« Fall de rail, &c. 

O let us not, like snarling tykes, 

In wrangling be divided ; 
"Till slap come in an unco loon 

And wi' a rung decide it 
Be Britain still to Britain true, 

Amang oursels united ; 
For never but by British hands 

Maun British wrangs be righted. 
" Fall de rail, &c. 

The kettle o' the kirk and state, 

Perhaps a clout may fail in't ; 
But deil a foreign tinkler loon 

Shall ever ca' a nail in't. 
Our fathers' bluid the kettle bought, 

And wha wad dare to spoil it ; 
By heaven the sacrilegious dog 

Shall fuel be to boil it. 

" Fal de rail, &c. 

The wretch that wad a tyrant own, 

And the wretch his true-bora brother, 
Who would set the mob aboon the throne, 

May they be damned together. 1 
Who will not sing " God save the king," 

Shall hang as high's the steeple ; 
But, while we sing " God save the king," 

We'll ne'er forget the people. 



POEM, 

ADDRESSED TO MR MITCHELL, 

EXCISE, DUMFRIES, 1796. 

Friend of the poet, tried and leal, 
Wha, wanting thee, might beg or steal ; 
Alake, alake, the meikle deil, 

Wi' a' his witches 
Are at it, skelpin' ! jig and reel, 

In my poor pouches. 

I, modestly, fu' fain wad hint it, 
That one pound one, I sairly want it ; 
If wi' the hizzie down ye send it, 

It would be kind ; 

* A high hill at the si 



t A will known mountain at "the mouih of the same Dam « life ' tho ' fi ction out may trick her, 
river. And in paste gems and rriDpery deck her j, 



And while my heart wi' life-blood duntea 
I'd bear't in mind. 



So may the auld year gang out moaning 
To see the new come laden, groaning, 
Wi' double plenty o'er the loanin 

To thee and thine ; 
Domestic peace and comforts crowning 

The hail design. 

POSTSCRIPT. 

Ye've heard this while how I've been licket, 
And by fell death was nearly nicket : 
Grim loon ! he gat me by the fecket, 

And sair me sheuk ; 
But, by guid luck, I lap a wicket, 

And turn'd a neuk. 

But by that health, I've got a share o't, 
And by that life I'm promised mair o't, 
My hale and weel I'll tak a' care o't 

A tentier way -. 
Then farewell folly, hide and hair o't, 

For ance and aye. 



The friend whom wild from wisdom's way, 
The fumes of wine infuriate send ; 

(Not moony madness more astray) 

Who but deplores that hapless friend ? 

Wine was th' insensate frenzied part, 
Ah why should I such scenes outlive ! 

Scenes so abhorrent to my heart ! 
T'is thine to pity and forgive. 



POEM ON LIFE, 



My honoured colonel, deep I feel 
Your interest in the poet's weal ; 
Ah ! how sma' heart hae I to speel 

The steep Parnassus, 
Surrounded thus by bolus pill. 

And potion glasses. 

O what a canty world were it, 

Would pain and care, and sickness spare it t 

And fortune, favour, worth, and merit, 

As they deserve ; 
(And aye a rowth, roast beef and claret ; 

Syne wha would starve?^ 



Oh ! flickering, feeble, and unsicker 

I've found her still, 

Aye wavering like the willow wicker, 

'Tween good and ill. 

Then that curst carmagnole, auld Satan, 
Watches like baudrons by a rattan, 
Our sinfu' saul to get a claut on 

Wi' felon ire ; 
Syne, whip ! his tail ye'll ne'er cast saut on, 

He's aff like fire. 

Ah Nick ! ah Nick, it is na fair, 
First showing us the tempting ware, 
Bright wines and bonnie lasses rare, 

To put us daft ; 
Syne weave unseen thy spider's snare 

hell's damn'dwaft. 

Poor man, the flie, aft bizzes by, 
And aft as chance he comes thee nigh, 
Thy auld damn'd elbow yeuks wi' joy, 

And hellish pleasure; 
Already in thy funcy's eye, 

Thy sicker treasure. 

Soon heels o'er gowdie ! in he gangs, 
And like a sheep-head on a tangs, 
Thy girning laugh enjoys his pangs 

And murdering wrestle, 
As dangling in the wind he hangs 

A gibbet's tasseJ. 

But lest you think I am uncivil. 

To plague you. with this draunting- dr ivel, 

Abjuring a' intentions evil, 

1 quat my pen ; 
The Lord preserve us frae the devil ! 

Amen ! amen ! 



ADDRESS TO THE TOOTH-ACHE. 
v My curse upon your venom'd stang, 
That shoots my tortur'd gums alang ; 
And thro' my lugs gies mony a twang, 

Wi' gnawing vengeance; 
Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang, 

Like racking engines ! 

When fevers burn, or ague freezes, 
Rheumatics gnaw, or cholic squeezes ; 
Our neighbour's sympathy may ease us, 

Wi' pitying moan ; 
But thee — thou hell o' a' diseases, 

Aye mocks our groan ! 

Adown my beard the slavers trickle ; 
I throw the 'wee stools o'er the meikle, 
As round the fire the giglets keckle, 

To see me loup ; 
While raving mad, I wish a heckle 

Were in their doup. 

O' a' the num'rous human dools, 
HI har'sts, daft bargains, cutty stools, 



MS. iBl 

Or worthy friends raked i' the moo Is, 
Sad sight to see ! 

The tricks o' knaves or fash o' fools, 

Thou bear'st the gree. 

Where'er that place be, priests ca' hell, 
Whence a' the tones o' mis'ry yell, 
And ranked plagues their numbers tell, 

In dreadfu' raw, 
Thou, Tooth-ache, surely bear'st the bell, 

Amang them a' ! 

O thou grim mischief making chiel, 
That gars the notes o' discord squeel, 
'Till daft mankind aft dance a reel 

In gore a shoe- thick ;— 
Gie a' the faes o' Scotland's weel 

A towmond's Tooth-Ache 



O wha is she that lo'es me, 
And has my heart a-keeping ? 

O sweet is she that lo'es me, 
As dews o' summer weeping, 
In tears the rose-buds steeping. 



O that's the lassie o' my heart, 
My lassie ever dearer ; 

O that's the queen o' womankind, 
And ne'er a ane to peer her. 

If thou shalt meet a lassie, 
In grace and beauty charming, 

That e'en thy chosen lassie, 

Ere while thy breast sae warming 
Had ne'er sic powers alarming. 
O that's, &c. 

If thou hadst heard her talking, 
And thy attentions plighted, 

That ilka body talking. 

But her by thee is slighted : 
And thou art all delighted. 

O that's, &c. 

If thou hast met this fair one ; 
When frae her thou hast parted, 

If every other fair one, 

But her thou hast deserted, 
And thou art broken hearted— 
O that's, &c. 



Jockie's ta'en the parting kiss, 
O'er the mountain he is gane ; 



BURNS' WORKS. 



And with him is a' my bliss, 
Nought but griefs with me remain. 

Spare my luve, ye winds that blaw, 
Plashy sleets and beating rain, 

Spare my luve, thou feathery snaw, 
Drifting o'er the frozen plain. 

When the shades of evening creep 
O'er the day's fair, gladsome e'e, 

Sound and safely may he sleep, 
Sweetly blythe his waukenmg be ! 

He will think on her he loves, 
Fondly he'll repeat her name ; 

For where'er he distant roves, 
Jockey's heart is still at hame. 



SONG. 

My Peggy's face, my Peggy's form 
The frost of Hermit age might warm ; 
My Peggy's worth, my Peggy's mind, 
Might charm the first of human kind : 
I love my Peggy's angel air, 
Her face so truly, heavenly fair, 
Her native grace so void of art, 
But I adore my Peggy's heart. 

The lily's hue, the rose's dye, 
The kindling lustre of an eye ; 
Who but owns their magic sway, 
Who but knows they all decay ! 
The tender thrill, the pitying tear, 
The generous purpose, nobly dear, 
The gentle look, that rage disarms 
These are all immortal charms. 



WRITTEN IN A WRAPPER, 

INCLOSING A LETTER TO CAPTAIN GROSE, TO B 
LEFT WITH MR CARDONiNEL, ANTIQUARIAN. 

Tune — "Sir John Malcolm." 

Ken ye ought o' Captain Grose? 

Igo, and ago, 
If he's among his friends or foes? 

Iram, coram, dago. 

Is he South, or is he North ? 

Igo, and ago, 
Or drowned in the river Forth ? 

Iram, coram, dago. 

Is he slain by Highland bodies ? 

Igo, and ago, 
And eaten like a wether-haggis ? 

Iram, coram, dago. 

Is he to Abram's bosom ean» 
Igo, and ago 



Or haudin' Sarah by the wame ? 
Iram, coram, dago. 

Where'er he be, the Lord be near him j 

Igo, and ago, 
As for the deil he daur na steer him, 

Iram, coram, dago. 

But please transmit th' inclosed letter, 

Igo, and ago, 
Which will oblige your humble debtor 

Iram, coram, dago. 

So may you have auld stanes in store, 

Igo, and ago, 
The very stanes that Adam bore, 

Iram, coram, dago. 

So may ye get in glad possession, 

Igo, and ago, 
The coins o' Satan's coronation ! 

Iram, coram, dago. 



ROBERT GRAHAM, Esq. OF FINTR1. 

ON RECEIVING A FAVOUR. 

I call no goddess to inspire my strains, 
A fabled Muse may suit a bard that feigns ; 
Friend of my life ! my ardent spirit burns, 
And all the tribute of my heart returns, 
For boons accorded, goodness ever new, 
The gift still dearer as the giver you. 

Thou orb of day ! thou other paler light ! 
And all ye many sparkling stars of night ; 
If aught that giver from my mind efface ; 
If I that giver's bounty e'er disgrace ; 
Then roll to me, along your wandering spheres* 
Only to number out a villain's year ! 



EPITAPH ON A FRIEND. 

An honest man here lies at rest, 
As e'er God with his image blest, 
The friend of man, the friend of truth ; 
The friend of age, and guide of youth: 
Few hearts like his, with virtue warm'd, 
Few heads with knowledge so inform'd : 
If there's another world, he lives in bliss ; 
If there is none, he made the best of this. 



A GRACE BEFORE DINNER. 

O thou, who kindly dost provide 

For evVy creature's want ! 
We bless thee, God of nature wide, . . 

For all thy goodness lent ; 



183 



And if it please thee, heavenly guide, 
May never worse be sent •, 

But whether granted, or denied, 
Lord bless us with content ! 
A men ! 



TO MY DKAR AND MUCH HONOURED FHIEND. 

MusDUNLOP, ofdunlop 

ON SENSIBILITY. 

Sensibility how charming, 

Thou, my friend, canst truly tell ; 

But distress, with horrors arming, 
Thou hast also known too well ! 

Fairest flower, behold the lily, 

Blooming in the sunny ray ; 
Let the blast sweep o'er the valley, 

See it prostrate on the clay. 



Hear the wood-lark charm the forest, 
Telling o'er his little joys : 

Hapless bird ! a prey the surest, 
To each pirate ot the skies. 

Dearly bought the hidden treasure, 
Finer feelings can bestow : 

Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure, 
Thrill the deepest notes of woe. 



COMPOSED AND REPEATED BY BURNS, TO THE 
MASTER OF THE HOUSE, ON TAKING LEAVE AT 
A PLACE JN THE HIGHLANDS WHERE HE HAD 
BEEN HOSPITABLY ENTERTAINED. 

When death's dark stream I ferry o'er ; 

A time that surely shall come ; 
■In heaven itself, I'll ask no more, 

Than just a Highland welcome. 



CORRESPONDENCE 



MR GEORGE THOMSON. 



CORRESPONDENCE, &c 



No. I. 

MR THOMSON TO MR BURNS. 

Sib, Edinburgh, September, 1792. 

Fok some years past, 1 have, with a friend or 
two, employed many leisure hours in selecting 
and collating the most favourite of our national 
melodies for publication. We have engaged 
Pleyel, the most agreeable composer living, to 
put accompaniments to these, and also to com- 
pose an instrumental prelude and conclusion 
to each air, the better to fit them for concerts, 
both public and private. To render this 
work perfect, we are desirous to have the 
poetry improved, wherever it seems unworthy 
of the music ; and that it is so in many in- 
stances, is allowed by every one conversant 
with our musical collections. The editors of 
these seem in general to have depended on the 
music proving an excuse for the verses ; and 
hence some charming melodies are united to 
mere nonsense and doggrel, while others are 
accommodated with rhymes so loose and indeli- 
cate, as cannot be sung in decent company. 
To remove this reproach, would be an easy 
task to the author of The Cotter's Saturday 
Night ; and, for the honour of Caledonia, I 
would fain hope he may be induced to take up 
the pen. If so, we shall be enabled to present 
the public with a collection infinitely more 
interesting than any that has yet appear- 
ed, and acceptable to all persons of taste, 
whether they wish for correct melodies, deli- 
cate accompaniments, or characteristic verses. 
— We will esteem your poetical assistance a 
particular favour, besides paying any reasonable 
price you shall please to demand for it. Profit 
is quite a secondary consideration with us, and 
we are resolved to spare neither pains nor ex- 
pense on the publication. Tell me frankly 
then, whether you will devote your leisure 
to writing twenty or twenty-five songs, 
suited to the particular melodies, which I am 
prepared to send you. A few songs exception • 
able only in some of their verses, I will like- 
wise submit to your consideration ; leaving 
it to you, either to mend these or make new 
Bongs in their stead. It is superfluous to as- 



sure you, that I have no intention to displace 
any of the sterling old songs ; those only will 
be removed which appear quite silly, or abso- 
lutely indecent. Even these shall all be exa- 
mined by Mr Burns, and if he is of opinion 
that any of them are deserving of the music 
in such cases, no divorce shall take place. 

Relying on the letter accompanying this, to 
be forgiven for the liberty I have taken in ad- 
dressing you, I am, with great esteem, sir, your 
most obedient humble servant, 

G. THOMSON. 



MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 

Sir, Dumfries, 16 September, 1792 

I have just this moment got your letter. As 
the request you make to me will positively add 
to my enjoyments in complying with it, I shall 
enter into your undertaking with all the small 
portion of abilities I have, strained to their ut- 
most exertion by the impulse of enthusiasm. 
Only, don't hurry me : " Deil tak the hind- 
most" is by no means the cri de guerre of my 
muse. Will you, as I am inferior to none of 
you in enthusiastic attachment to the poetry 
and music of old Caledonia, and since you re- 
quest it, have cheerfully promised my mite of 
assistance — will you let me have a list of your 
airs, with the first line of the printed verses you 
intend for them, that I may have an opportunity 
of suggesting anyalterution that may occur to me 
You know 'tis in the way of my trade ; still 
leaving you, gentlemen, the undoubted right of 
publishers, to approve, or reject, at your plea- 
sure, for your own publication. Apropos, if 
you are for English verses, there is, on my 
part, an end of the matter. Whether in the 
simplicity of the ballad, or the pathos of the 
song, I can only hope to please myself in be- 
ing allowed at least a sprinkling of our native 
tongue. English verses, particularly the works 
of Scotsmen, that have merit, are certainly very 
eligible. Tweedside ; Ah ! the poor Shepherd's 
mournful fate , Ah! Ckloris, could I now rU 



188 



BURNS' WORKS. 



sit, &c. you cannot mend ; but such insipid 
stuff as To Fanny fair, could I impart, &c. us- 
ually set to The Mill Mill O, is a disgrace to 
the collections in which it has already appear- 
ed, and would doubly disgrace a collection that 
will have the superior merit of yours. But 
more of this in the farther prosecution of the 
business, if I am called on for my strictures 
and amendments — I say, amendments ; for I 
will not alter except where I myself, at least, 
think that I amend. 

As to any remuneration, you may think my 
songs either above or below price ; for they 
shall absolutely be the one or the other. In 
the honest enthusiasm with which I embark in 
your undertaking, to talk of money, wages, fee, 
hire, &c. would be downright prostitution of 
soul ! A proof of each of the songs that I 
compose or amend, I shall receive as a favour. 
In the rustic phrase of the season, " Guid speed 
the wark !" 

I am, Sir, your very humble servant, 
R. BURNS. 

P. S. I have some particular reasons for 
wishing my interference to be known as little 
as possible 



MR THOMSON TO MR BURNS. 

Dear Sir, Edinburgh, 13th October, 1792. ! 

I received, with much satisfaction, your i 
pleasant and obliging letter, and I return my 
warmest acknowledgments for the enthusiasm j 
with which you have entered into our under- 
taking. We have now no doubt of being able ! 
to produce a collection highly deserving of 
public attention, in all respects. 

I agree with you in thinking English verses, 
that have merit, very eligible, wherever new \ 
verses are necessary ; because the English be- j 
comes every year, more and more, the language I 
of Scotland ; but if you mean that no English i 
verses, except those by Scottish authors, ought | 
to be admitted, I am half inclined to differ 
from you. I should consider it unpardonable ' 
to sacrifice one good song in the Scottish di- | 
alect, to make room for English verses ; but j 
if we can select a few excellent ones suited to j 
the unprovided or ill-provided airs, would it 
not be the very bigotry of literary patriotism j 
to reject such, merely because the authors 
were bom south of the Tweed? Our sweet j 
air My Nannie O, which in the collections is j 
joined to the poorest stuff that Allan Ramsay 
ever wrote, beginning, While some for pleasure j 
pawn their health, answers so finely to Dr Percy's ! 
beautiful song, O Nancy wilt thou go with me, j 
that one would think he wrote it on purpose 
for the air. However, it is not at all our wish 
to confine you to English verses : you shall 
freely be allowed a sprinkling of your native 



tongue, as you elegantly express it, and, moit- 
over, we will patiently wait your own time. 
One thing only I beg, which is, that however 
gay and sportive the muse may be, she may 
always be decent. Let her not write what 
beauty would blush to speak, nor wound that 
charming delicacy, which forms the most pre- 
cious dowry of our daughters. I do not con- 
ceive the song to be the most proper vehicle 
for witty and brilliant conceits : simplicity, I 
believe, should be its prominent feature ; but 
in some of our songs, the writers have con- 
founded simplicity with coarseness and vulgar- 
ity ; although, between the one and the other, 
as Dr Beattie well observes, there is as great 
a difference as between a plain suit of clothes 
and a bundle of rags. The humorous ballad, 
or pathetic complaint, is best suited to our art- 
less melodies ; and more interesting indeed in 
all songs than the most pointed wit, dazzling 
descriptions, and flowery fancies. 

With these trite observations, I send yon 
eleven of the songs, for which it is my wish to 
substitute others of your writing. I shall soon 
transmit the rest, and at the same time, a pro- 
spectus of the whole collection : and you may 
believe we will receive any hints that you are 
so kind as to give for improving the work, with 
the greatest pleasure and thankfulness. 

I remain, dear Sir 



MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 

My Dear Sir, 
Let me tell you, that you are too fastidious 
in your ideas of songs and bailads. I own that 
your criticisms are just ; the songs you specify 
in your list have all but one the faults you re- 
mark in them ; but who shall mend the mat- 
ter? Who shall rise up and say — Go to, I 
will make a better ? For instance, on reading 
over The Lea-rig, I immediately set about 
trying my hand on it, and, after all, I could 
make nothing more of it than the following 
which, Heaven knows, is poor enough. 

When o'er the hill the eastern star, 

Tells bughtin-time is near, my jo ; 
And owsen frae the furrow'd field. 

Return sae dowf and weary O ; 
Down by the burn, where scented birks 

Wi' dew are hanging clear, my jo, 
I'll meet thee on the lea-rig, 

My ain kind dearie O. 

In mirkest glen at midnight hour, 

I'd rove and ne'er be eerie O, 
If through that glen I gaed to thee, 

My ain kind dearie O, 
Altho' the night were ne'er sae wild,* 

And I were ne'er sae wearie O, 

* In the copy transmitted to Mr Thomson, instead of 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



189 



Pd meet thee on the lea-rig, 
My ain kind dearie O. 

Your observation as to the aptitude of Dr 
Percy's ballad to the air Nannie O, is just. 
It is, besides, perhaps the most beautiful ballad 
in the English language. But let me remark 
to you, that in the sentiment and style of our 
Scottish airs, there is a pastoral simplicity, a 
something that one may call the Doric style 
and dialect of vocal music, to which a dash of 
our native tongue and manners is particularly, 
nay, peculiarly, apposite. For this reason, and, 
upon my honour, for this reason alone, I am of 
opinion (but as 1 told you before, my opinion 
is yours, freely yours, to approve or reject, as 
you please) that my ballad or Nannie O might 
perhaps do for one set of verses to the tune. 
Now don't let it enter into your head, that you 
are under any necessity of taking my verses. 
I have long ago made up my mind as my 
own reputation in the business of authorship; 
and have nothing to be pleased or offended at, 
in your adoption or rejection of my verses. 
Though you should reject one half of what I 
give you, I shall be pleased with your adopting 
the other half, and shall continue to serve you 
with the same assiduity. 

In the printed copy of my Nannie O, the 
name of the river is horridly prosaic. I will 
alter it, 



Jehind yon hills < 






Girvan is the name of the river that suits the 
idea of the stanza best, but Lugar is the most 
agreeable modulation of syllables. 

I will soon give you a great many more re- 
marks on this business ; but I have just now 
an opportunity of conveying you this scrawl, 
free of postage, an expense that it is ill able to 
pay ; so, with my best compliments to honest 
Allan, Good be wi* ye, &'c. 
Friday Night. 



Saturday Morning. 

As I find I have still an hour to spare this 
morning before my conveyance goesaway, I will 
give you Nannie O at length. (See p. 138.) 

Your remarks on Ewe bugltts, Marion, are 
just; still it has obtained a place among our 
more classical Scottish songs ; and what with 



wild, was inserted wet. But in one of the manuscripts, 
probably written afterwards, wet was changed into 
wild, evidently no great improvement. The lovers might 
meet on the lea-ng, " Mi In. ugh tin' night were ne'er so 
wild," that is, although the -uinmer-wind blew, the sky 
loured, and the thunder murmured; such circumstances 

might render their i ting -till more interesting. But 

if the night were actually wet, why should they meet on 
the lea-rig? On a wet night, the imagination cannot 
contemplate their situation there with any compl: 

cency— Xir.ull.i-, and alter him Hair 

ceived a happier situation for lovers 
Probably Burns had in his mind the 



mond, has c 



many beauties in its composition, and mo- a 
prejudices in its favour, you will not find it 
easy to supplant it. 

In my very early years, when I was thinking 
of going to the West Indies, I took the follow, 
ing farewell of a dear girl. It is quite trifling, 
and has nothing of the merit of Ewe bugkts; 
but it will fill up this page. You must know, 
that all my earlier love-songs were the breath, 
ing of ardent passion, and though it might have 
been easy in after-times to have given them a 
polish, yet that polish, to me, whose they were 
and who perhaps alone cared for them, would 
have defaced the legend of my heart, which 
was so faithfully inscribed on them. Their 
uncouth simplicity was, as they say of wines, 
their race. 

Will ye go to the Indies, my Mar)-, 

And leave auld Scotia's shore ? 
Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, 

Across th' Alantic's roar? 

sweet grows the lime and the orange, 
And the apple on the pine : 

But a' the charms o' the Indies, 
Can never equal thine. 

1 hae sworn by the Heavens to my Mary, 
I hae sworn by the Heavens to be true, 

And sae may the Heavens forget me, 
When I forget my vow. 

O plight me your faith, my Mary, 
And plight me your lily white hand : 

O plight me your faith, my Mary, 
Before I leave Scotia's strand. 

We hae plighted our troth, my Mary, 

In mutual affection to join, 
And curst be the cause that shall part us ! 

The hour, and the moment o' time !* 

Galla Water and Auld Rob Morris, I think,. 
will most probably be the next subject of my 
musings. However, even on my verses, speak 
out your criticisms with equal frankness. My 
wish is, not to stand aloof, the uncomplying 
bigot of opinidtrete, but cordially to join issue 
with you in the furtherance of the work. 



" When my ploughman comes hame at e'ei 

He's often wet and weary ; 
Cast off the wet, put on the dry, 

And gae to bed my deary." 



190 



BURNS' WORKS. 



No. V. 

Mr BURNS to Mr THOMSON. 

November 8th, 1792. 

If you mean, my dear sir, that all the songs in 
your collection shall be poetry of the first mer- 
it, I am afraid you will And more difficulty in 
the undertaking than you are aware of. There 
is a peculiar rhythmus in many of our airs 
and a necessity of adapting syllables to the em- 
phasis, or what I would call the feature notes, 
of the. tune, that cramp the poet, and lay him 
under almost insuperable difficulties. For in- 
stance, in the air, My wife's a wanton wee thing, 
if a few lines, smooth and pretty, can be adapt- 
to it, it is all you can expect. The following 
were made extempore to it; and though, on 
farther study, I might give you something more 
profound, yet it might not suit the light-horse 
gallop of the air so well as this random clink. 

MY WIFE'S A WINSOME WEE 
THING. 

She is a winsome wee thing, 
She is a handsome wee thing, 
She is a bonnie wee thing, 
This sweet wee wife o' mine. 

I never saw a fairer, 

I never lo'ed a dearer, 

And neist my hear I'll wear her, 

For fear my jewel tine. 

She is a winsome wee thing, 
She is a handsome wee thing, 
She is a bonnie wee thing, 
This sweet wee wife o' mine. 

The warld's wrack we share o't, 
The wrastle and the care o't : 
Wi' her I'll blythely bear it, 
And think my lot divine. 



I have just been looking over the Collier's 
honny Dochter, and if the following rhapsody, 
which 1 composed the other day, on a charm- 
ing Ayrshire girl, Miss , as she passed 

through this place to England, will suit your 
taste better than the Col/.ier Lassie, fall on and 
welcome. 

O saw ye bonnie Lesley 

As she gaed o'er the border ? 

She's gane, like Alexander, 

To spread her conquests farther. 

To see her is to love her, 

And love but her for ever ; 
For Nature made her what she is, 

And never made anither. 



Thou art a queen, fair Lesley, 
Thy subjects we, before thee : 

Thou art divine, fair Lesley, 
The hearts o' men adore thee. 

The Deil he could na scaith thee, 
Or aught that wad belang thee j 

He'd look into thy bonnie face, 
And say, " I canna wrang thee." 

The powers aboon will tent thee ; 

Misfortune sha'na steer thee ; 
Thou'rt like themselves sae lovely, 

That ill they'll ne'er let near thee. 

Return again, fair Lesley, 

Return to Caledonie ! 
That we may brag we hae a lass 

There's nane again sae bonnie. 



I have hitherto deferred the sublimer, more 
pathetic airs, until more leisure, as they will 
take, and deserve, a greater effort. However, 
they are all put into your hands, as clay into 
the hands of the potter, to make one vessel to 
honour, and another to dishonour Farewell, 



Mr BURNS to Mr THOMSON. 
HIGHLAND MARY. 

Tune — " Katharine Ogie." 

Ye banks, and braes, and streams around 

The castle o' Montgomery, 
Green be your woods, and fair your flowers; 

Your waters never drumlie ! 
There simmer first unfauld her robes, 

And there the langest tarry ; 
For there I took the last fareweel 

O' my sweet Highland Mary. 

How sweetly bloom'd the gay, green birk, 

How rich the hawthorn's blossom ; 
As underneath her fragrant shade, 

I clasp'd her to my bosom ! 
The golden hours, on angel wings, 

Flew o'er me and my dearie ; 
For dear to me as light and life, 

Was my sweet Highland Mary. 

Wi' mony a vow, and lock'd embrace, 

Our parting was fu' tender; 
And, pledging aft to meet again, 

We tore our selves asunder ; 
But Oh ! fell death's untimely frost, 

That nipt my flower sae early ! 
Now green's the sod and cauld's the clay, 

That wraps my Highland Mary ! 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



191 



O pale, pale now, those rosy lips, 

I aft hae kiss'ed sae fondly ; 
A id closed for aye, the sparkling glance, 

That dwelt on me sae kindly ! 
And mouldering now in silent dust 

The heart that lo'ed me dearly ! 
Rut still within my bosom's core, 

Shall live my Highland Mary. 



My Dear Sir, 14th November, 1792. 

I AGREE with you, that the song, Katherine 
Ogie, is very poor stuff, and unworthy, alto- 
gether unworthy, of so beautiful an air. I 
tried to mend it, but the awkward sound Ogie, 
recurring so often in the rhyme, spoils every at- 
tempt at introducing sentiment into the piece. 
The foregoing song pleases myself; I think 
it is in my happiest manner; you will see at 
first glance that it suits the air. The subject 
of the song is one of the most interesting pas- 
sages of my youthful days ; and I own that I 
should be much flattered to see the verses set 
to an air, which would insure celebrity. _ Per- 
haps after all, 'tis the still glowing prejudice 
of my heart, that throws a borrowed lustre 
over the merits of the composition. 

I have partly taken your idea of Avid Rob 
Morris. I have adopted the two first verses, 
and am going on with the song on a new plan, 
which promises pretty well. I take up one or 
another, just as the bee of the moment buzzes 
in my bonnet lug ; and do you, sans ceremonie, 
make what use you choose of the productions. 
Adieu ! &c. 



MR THOMSON TO MR RURNS. 



Dear Sir, 



Edinburgh, Nov. 1792. 



I was just going to write to you, that on meet- 
ing with your Nannie, I had fallen violently in 
love with her. I thank you therefore, for 
sending the charming rustic to me in the dress 
you wish her to appear before the public. She 
does you great credit and will soon be admitted 
into the best company. 

I regret that your song for the Lea-Rig, is 
so short ; the air is easy, sung soon, and very 
pleasing ; so that if the singer stops at the end 
of two stanzas, it is a pleasure lost, ere it is 
well possessed. 

Although a dash of our native tongue and 
manners is doubtless peculiarly congenial and 
appropriate to our melodies, yet I shall be able 
to present a considerable number of the very 
Flowers of English Song, well adapted to 
those melodies which in England, at least, will 
be the means of recommending them to still 
greater attention than they have procured there. 



Rut you will observe, my plan is, that every 
air shall, in the first place, have verses wholly 
by Scottish poets ; and that those of English 
writers shall follow as additional songs, for 
the choice of the singer. 

What you say of the Eice-bughts is just ; I 
admire it, and never meant to supplant it. 
All I requested was, that you would try your 
hand on some of the inferior stanzas, which are 
apparantly no part of the original song ; but 
this I do not urge, because the song is of suffi- 
cient length though those inferior stanzas be 
omitted, as they will be by the singer of taste. 
You must not think I expect all the songs to be of 
superlative merit ; that were an unreasonable 
expectation. I am sensible that no poet can 
sit down doggedly to pen verses and succeed well 
at all times. 

I am highly pleased with your humorous and 
amorous rhapsody on Bonnie Leslie: it is a thou- 
sand times better than the Collier's Lassie : " The 
deil he couldna scaith thee," &c. is an eccentric 
and happy thought. Do you not think, however, 
that the names of such old heroes as Alexander, 
sound rather queer, unless in pompous or mere 
burlesque verse ? Instead of the line, " And 
never made anither," I would humbly suggest; 
" And ne'er made sic anither;" and 1 would 
fain have you substitute some other line for 
" Return to Caledonie," in the last verse, be- 
cause I think this alteration in the orthography, 
and of the sound of Caledonia, disfigures the 
word, and renders it Hudibrastic. 

Of the other song, My wife's a veinsome 
wee thing, I think the first eight lines are very 
good ; but I do not admire the other eight, be- 
cause four of them are bare repetitions of the first 
verses. I have been trying to spin a stanza, 
but could make nothing better than the follow- 
ing ; do you mend it, or as Yorick did with 
the love-letter, whip it up in your own way. 

O leeze me on my wee thing, 
My bonnie blythesome wee thing ; 
Sae lang's I hae my wee thing 
I'll think my lot divine. 

Tho' warld's care we share o't, 
And may see meikle mair o't, 
Wi' her I'll blythely bear it, 
And ne'er a word repine. 



You perceive, my dear sir, I avail myself 
of the liberty which you condescend to allow me 
by speaking freely what I think. Re assured, 
it is not my disposition to pick out the faults 
of any poem, or picture I see ; my first and 
chief object is to discover and be delighted with 
the beauties of the piece. If I sit down to 
examine critically, and at leisure, what perhapa 
you have written in haste, I may happen to ob- 
serve careless lines, the re-perusal of which 
might lead you to imorove them. The wren 



BURNS' WORKS. 



will often see what has been overlooked by the 
eagle. 

1 remain yours, faithfully, &c. 

P. S. Your verses upon Highland Mary 
are just come to hand ; they breathe the ge- 
nuine spirit of poetry, and, like the music, 
will last for ever. Such verses united to such 
an air, with the delicate harmony of Pleyel 
supperadded, might form a treat worthy of 
being presented to Apollo himself. I have 
heard the sad story of your Mary : you always 
seem inspired when you write of her. 



Ma BURNS to Ma THOMSON. 

Dumfries, 1st December, 1792. 
Youa alterations of my Nannie O are perfectly 
right. So are those of " My wife's a wanton 
wee thing." Your alteration of the second 
stanza is a positive improvement. Now, my 
dear sir, with the freedom which characterises 
our correspondence, I must not, cannot alter 
« Bonnie Leslie." You are right, the word 
" Alexander'' makes the line a little uncouth, 
but I think the thought is pretty. Of Alex- 
ander, beyond all other heroes, it may be said, 
in the sublime language of scripture, that " he 
went forth conquering and to conquer." 

" For nature made her what she is, [ is. ) 

And never made anither," (such a person as she 

This is in my opinion more poetical than 
" Ne'er made sic anither." However, it is 
immaterial: Make it either way.* " Cale- 
donie," I agree with you, is not so good a word 
as could be wished, though it is sanctioned in 
three or four instances by Allan Ramsay ; but 
I cannot help it. In short, that species of 
stanza is the most difficult that I have ever 
tried. 

The "Lea-rig" is as follows. (Were the 
poet gives the two first stanzas as before, p. 
188, with the following in addition.) 

The hunter lo'es the morning sun, 

To rouse the mountain deer, my jo ; 
At noon the fisher seeks the glen, 

Along the burn to steer my jo ; 
Gie me the hour o' gloamin grey, 

It mak's my heart sae cheery O, 
To meet thee on the lea-rig, 

My ain kind dearie, O. 



I am interrupted. Yours, &c. 

" Ne'er made sic an- 



No. IX. 
Ma BURNS to Ma THOMSON. 

auld aoB Moaais.* 

Thebe's auld Rob Morris that wons in yon 

glen, 
He's the king o' guid fellows and wale o' auld 

men; 
He has gowd in his coffers, he has owseu and 

kine, 
And ae bonnie lassie, his darling and mine. 

She's fresh as the morning, the fairest in May; 
She's sweet as the ev'ning amang the new hay ; 
As blythe and as artless as the lambs on the 

lea, 
And dear to my heart as the light to my e'e. 

But Oh ! she's an heiress, auld Robin's a laird, 
And my daddie has nought but a cot-house and 

yard ; 
A wooer like me maunna hope to come speed, 
The wounds I must hide that will soon be my 

dead. 

The day comes to me, but delight brings me 

nane; 
The night comes to me, but my rest it is gane ; 
I wander my lane like a night-troubled ghaist, 
And I sigh as my heart it wad burst in my 

breast. 

had she but been of a lower degree, 

1 then might hae hoped she wad smiled upon 

me ! 
O, how past describing had then been my bliss, 
As now my distraction no words can express ! 



DUNCAN GRAY. 



Duncan Gbay cam here to woo. 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 
On blythe yule night when we were fu', 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't, 
Maggie coost her head fu' high, 
Look'd asklent and unco skeigh, 
Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh ; 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 

Duncan fleech'd, and Duncan pray'd ; 

Ha, ha, &c. 
Meg was deaf as Ailsa craig,-). 

Ha, ha, &c. 
Duncan sigh'd baith out and in, 



* The first two lines are taken from an old ba 
the rest is wholly original. 

■f A well-known rock in the frith of Clyde. 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



Grat his een baith bleer't and blin', 
Spak o' lowpin o'er a linn ; 
Ha, ha, &c. 

Time and chance are but a tide, 

Ha, ha, &c. 
Slighted love is sair to bide 

Ha, ha, &c. 
Shall I, like a fool, quoth he, 
For a haughty hizzie die ? 
She may gae to — Fiance for me ! 

Ha, ha, &c. 

How it comes let doctors tell, 

Ha, ha, &c. 
Meg grew sick as he grew heal, 

Ha, ha, &c. 
Something in her bosom wrings, 
For relief a sigh she brings ; 
And Oh, her een they spak sic things 

Ha, ha, &c. 

Duncan was a lad o' grace, 

Ha, ha, &c. 
Maggie's was a piteous case, 

Ha, ha, &c. 
Duncan could na be her death, 
Swelling pity smoor'd his wrath ; 
Now they're crouse and canty baith. 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't.* 



4th December, 1792. 
The foregoing I submit, my dear sir, to your 
better judgment. Acquit them or condemn 
them as seemeth good in your sight. Duncan 
Gray is that kind of light-horse gallop of an 
air, which precludes sentiment. The ludicrous 
is its ruling feature. 



No. X. 
Mr BURNS to Mb THOMSON. 



Tune—" I had a horse. 

O poohtith cauld and restless love, 
Ye wreck my peace between ye ; 

Yet pooitith a' I could forgive, 
An' 'twere na' for my Jeanie. 

why should fate sic pleasure have, 
Life's dearest bands untwining? 

Or why sae sweet a flower as love, 
Depend on fortune's shining ? 



* This has nothing in common with the old licentious 
ballad of Duncan Gray, but the first line and part of the 

third. The rest u ivlmi.y ordinal. 



Tin's warld's wealth when I think on, 
It's pride and a' the lave o't : 

Fie. fie, on silly coward man, 
That he should be the slave o't, 
O wny.&c. 

Hit een sae bonnie blue betray, 
How she repays my passion •, 

But prudence is her o'ei word aye, 
She talks of rank and fashion. 
O why, &c. 

O wha can prudence think upon, 

And sic a lassie by him ? 
O wha can prudence think upon, 

And sae in love as I am? 
O why, &c. 

How blest the humble cotter's fate!* 
He wooes his simple dearie ; 

The silly bogles wealth and state, 
Can never make them eerie, 

O why should fate sic pleasure have, 
Life's dearest bands untwining? 

Or why sae sweet a flower as love, 
Depend on Fortune's shining? 



GALLA WATER. 

There's braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes, 
That wander thro' the blooming hoatheri 

But Yarrow braes, nor Ettrick shaws, 
Can match the lads o' Galla water. 

But there is ane, a secret ane, 

Aboon them a' I loe him better 
And I'll be his, and he'll be mine, 

The bonnie lad o' Galla Water. 

Altho' his daddie was nae laird, 
And tho' I hae na meikle tocher; 

Yet rich in kindness, truest love, 

We'll tent our flocks by Galla Water 

It ne'er was wealth, it ne'er was wealth, 

That coft contentment, peace, or pleasure , 

The bands and bliss o' mutual love, 
O that's the chiefest warld's treasure 

January, 1793. 
Many returns of the season to you, my dear 
sir. How comes on your publication? will 
these two foiegoing be of any service to you. 
I should like to know what songs you print to 
each tune, besides the verses to which it is set.' 
In short, 1 would wish to give you my opinion 
on all the poetry you publish. You know, it 
is my trade ; and a man in the way of his trade 
may suggest useful hints, that escape men of 

n the original MS. 



494 



BURNS' WORKS. 



much superior parts and endowments in other 
things. 

If you meet with my dear, and much- valued 
C greet him in my name, with the compliments 
of the season. 

Yours, &c. 



MR THOMSON TO MR BURNS. 

Edinburgh, January, 20;h, 1793. 
You make me happy, my dear sir, and thou- 
sands will be happy to see the charming songs 
you have sent me. Many merry returns of 
the season to you, and may you long continue 
among the sons and daughters of Caledonia, to 
delight them, and to honour yourself. 

The four last songs with which you favour- 
ed me, for Auld Rob Morris, Duncan Gray, 
Galla Water, and Cauld Kail, are admirable. 
Duncan is indeed a lad of grace, and his humour 
will endear him to every body. 

The distracted lover in Auld Rob, and the 
happy shepherdess in Gulla Water, exhibit an 
excellent contrast; they speak from genuine 
feeling, and powerfully touch the heart. 

The number of songs which I had originally 

view was limited, but I now resolve to in- 
clude every Scotch air and song worth sing- 
ing ; leaving none behind but mere gleanings, 
to which the publishers of omnegatherum are 
welcome. I would rather be the editor of a 
collection from which nothing could be taken 
away, than of one to which nothing could be 
added. We intend presenting the subscribers 
with two beautiful stroke engravings ; the one 
characteristic of the plaintive, and the other of 
the lively songs ; and I have Dr Beattie's pro- 
mise of an essay upon the subject of our 
national music, it' his health will permit him 
to write it. As a number of our songs 
have doubtless been called forth by particular 
events or by the charms of peerless damsels, 
there must be many curious anecdotes relating 
to them. 

The late Mr Tytler of Woodhouselee, I 
believe, knew more of this than any body, for 
he joined to the pursuits of an antiquary, a taste 
for poetry, besides being a man of the world, 
and possessing an enthusiasm for music beyond 
most of his contemporaries. He was quite 
pleased with this plan of mine, for I may say, 
it has been solely managed by me, and we had 
several long conversations about it, when it 
was in embryo. If I could simply mention 
the name of the heroine of each song, and the 
incident which occasioned the verses, it would 
be gratifying. Pray, will you send me any in- 
formation of this sort, as well with regard to 
your own songs, as the old ones ? 

To all the favourite songs of the plaintive 
or pastoral kind, will be joined the delicate ac- 
companiments, &c. of Pleyel. To those of 
the comic or humorous class, I think accom- 



paniments scarcely necessary ; they are cheifly 
fitted for the conviviality of the festive board, 
and a tuneful voice, with a proper delivery of 
the words, renders them perfect. Neverthe- 
less, to these I propose adding bass accompani- 
ments, because then they are fitted either 
for singing, or for instrumental performance, 
when there happens to be no singer. I mean 
to employ our right trusty friend Mr Clarke 
to set the bass to these, which he assures me 
he will do, con amore, and with much greater 
attention than he ever bestowed on any thing 
of the kind. But for this last class of airs, I 
will not attempt to find more than one set of 
verses. 

That eccentric bard Peter Pindar, has start- 
ed I know not how many difficulties, about 
writing for the airs I sent to him, because of 
the peculiarity of their measure, and the tram- 
mels they impose on his flying Pegasus. I 
subjoin for your perusal the only one I have 
yet got from him, being for the fine air " Lord 
Gregory." The Scots verses printed with 
that air, are taken from the middle of an old 
ballad, called, The Lass of Lochroyan, which 
I do not admire. I have set down the air 
therefore as a creditor of yours. Many of the 
Jacobite songs are replete with wit and hu 
mour ; might not the best of these be included 
in our volume of comic songs ? 



POSTSCRIPT. 

FROM THE Hon. A. ERSKINE 

Mr Thomson has been so obliging as to give 
me a perusal of your songs. Highland Mary 
is most enchantingly pathetic, and Duncan 
Gray possesses native genuine humour : " spak 
o' lowpin o'er a linn," is a line of itself that 
should make you immortal. I sometimes 
hear of you from our mutual friend C. who is 
a most excellent fellow, and possesses, above all 
men I know, the charm of a most obliging dis- 
position. You kindly promised me, about a 
year ago, a collection of your unpublished pro- 
ductions, religious and amorous ; I know from 
experience how irksome it is to copy. If you 
will get any trusty person in Dumfries to 
write them over fair, I will give Peter Hill 
whatever money he asks for his trouble ; and 
I certainly shall not betray your confidence. 
I am, your hearty admirer, 
ANDREW ERSKINE. 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



195 



N T o XII. 

Mr BURNS to Mr THOMSON. 

26th January, 1793. 
1 approve greatly, my dear sir, of your plans. 
I)r Beattie's essay will of itself be a treasure. 
On my part, I mean to draw up an appendix 
to the Doctor's essay, containing my stock of 
anecdotes, &c. of our Scots songs. All tbe 
late Mr Tytler's anecdotes I have by me, taken 
down in the course of my acquaintance with 
him from his own mouth. I am such an en- 
thusiast, that in the course of my several pere- 
grinations through Scotland, I made a pilgrimage 
to the individual spot from which every song 
took its rise, " Lochaber," and the " Braes of 
Ballenden," excepted. So far as the locality, 
either from the title of the air, or the tenor of 
the song, could be ascertained, I have paid 
my devotions at the particular shrine of every 
Scotch muse. 

I do not doubt but you might make a very 
valuable collection of Jacobite songs — but 
would it give no offence ? In the mean time, 
do not you think that some of them, particu- 
larly " The Sow's tail to Geordie," as an air, 
with other words, might be well worth a place 
in your collection of lively songs ? 

If it were possible to procure songs of merit, 
it would be proper to have one set of Scots 
words to every air, and that the set of words 
to which the notes ought to be set. There is 
a naivete, a pastoral simplicity, in a slight in- 
termixture of Scots words and phraseology, 
which is more in unison (at least to my taste, 
and I will add, to every genuine Caledonian 
taste), with the simple pathos, or rustic 
Bprightliness of our native music, than any 
English verses whatever. 

The very name of Peter Pindar, is an ac- 
quisition to your work. .His " Gregory " is 
beautiful. I have tried to give you a set of 
stanzas in Scots, on the same subject, which 
are at your service. Not that I intend to 
enter the lists with Peter ; that would be pre- 
sumption indeed. My song, though much in- 
ferior in poetic merit, has I think more of the 
ballad simplicity in it. 



LORD GREGORY. 



O mirk, mirk is this midnight hour, 
And loud the tempests roar ; 

A waeful wanderer seeks thy tower 
Lord Gregory ope thy door. 

An exile frae her father's ha', 

And a' for loving thee ; 
At least some pity on me shaw, 

If love it may na be. 



Lord Gregory, mind'st thou not the grove, 

By bonnie Irwine side, 
Where first I own'd that virgin love 

I lang, lang had denied. 

Plow aften didst thou pledge and vow, 

Thou wad for aye be mine ; 
And my fond heart, itsel sae true, 

It ne'er mistrusted thine. 

Hard is thy heart, Lord Gregory, 

And flinty is thy breast ; 
Thou dart of heav'n that flashest by, 

O wilt thou give me rest ! 

Ye mustering thunders from above 

Your willing victim see ! 
But spare and pardon my fause love, 

His wrangs to heaven and me !* 

My most respectful compliments to the ho- 
nourable gentleman who favoured me with a 
postscript in your last. He shall hear from 
me and his MSS. soon. 



Mr BURNS to Mr THOMSON. 
20th March, 1793, 
MARY MORISON. 

Tune — *' Bide ye yet." 

O Mary, at thy window be, 

It is the wish'd, the trysted hour ; 
Those smiles and glances let me see, 

That make the miser's treasure poor ; 
How blythely wad I bide the stoure, 

A weary slave frae sun to sun ; 
Could I the rich reward secure, 

The lovely Mary Morison. 



» The song of Dr Walcott on the same sublect is as 

follow : 

AH ope, Lord Gregory thy door, 

A midnight wanderer sighs ; 
Hard rush the rains, the tempests roar, 

And lightnings cleave the 6kies. 

Who comes with woe at this drear night— 

A pilgrim of the gloom, 
If she whose love did once delight, 

My cot shall yield her room. 

Alas ! thou heard'st a pilgrim mourn. 

That once was priz'd by thee : 
Think of the ring by yonder bur 

Thou gav'st to love and me. 

But should'st thou not poor Marian know, 

I'll turn my feet and part ; 
And think the storms that round me blow, 

Far kinder than thy heart. 

It is but doing justice to Dr Walcott to mention, that 
his song is the original. Mr Burns saw it, liked it, and 
immediately wrote the other on the same subject, 
which is derived from an old Scottish ballad of uncer- 
tain origin. 



196 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Yestreen when to the trembling string, 

The dance gaed thro* the lighted ha', 
To thee my fancy took its wing, 

I sat, hut neither heard nor saw ; 
Tho' this was fair, and that was braw 

And you the toast of a' the town, 
I sigh'd, and said, amang them a', 

" Ye are na Mary Morison." 

O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace, 
• Wha for thy sake wad gladly die ! 
Or canst thou break that heart of bis, 

Whase only faut is loving thee. 
If love for love thou wilt nae gie, 

At least be pity to me shown ; 
A thought ungentle canna be 

The thought o' Mary Morison. 



My Dear Sir, 

The song prefixed is one of my juvenile 
works. I leave it in your hands. I do not 
think it very remarkable, either for its merits, 
or demerits. It is impossible (at least I feel 
it so in my stinted powers) to be always ori- 
ginal, entertaining, and witty, 

What is become of the list, &c. of your 
songs ? I shall be out of all temper with you 
Dy and by. I have always looked on myself as 
the prince of indolent correspondents, and val- 
ued myself accordingly ; and I will not, cannot 
hear rivalship from you, or any body else. 



No. XIV. 
Mr BURNS to Mr THOMSON. 
March, 1793. 
WANDERING WILLIE. 

Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie, 
Now tired with wandering, haud awa hame, 

Come to my bosom my ae only dearie, 

And tell me thou bring'st me my Willie the 



Loud blew the cauld winter winds at our part- 
ing ! 
It was nae the blast brought the tear in my 
e'e ! Willie, 

Now welcome the simmer, and welcome my 
The simmer to nature, my Willie to me. 



Ye hurricanes rest in the cave o' your slumbers, 
O how your wild horrors a lover alarms : 

Awaken ye breezes, row gently ye billows, 
And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my 



But if he's forgotten his faithfullest Nannie, 
still flow between us, thou wide roaring 



May I never see it, may I never trow it, 
But, dying, believe that my Willie's my ain. 



I leave it to you, my dear sir, to determine 
whether the above, or the old " Through the 
lang Muir " be the best. 



No. XV. 

Mr BURNS to Mr THOMSON. 

OPEN THE DOOR TO ME OH I 

WITH ALTERATIONS. 

Oh open the door, some pity to show, 

Oh, open the door to me Oh. 
Tho' thou hast been false, I'll ever prove true. 

Oh, open the door to me, Oh. 

Cauld is the blast upon my pale cheek, 
But caulder thy love for me, Oh : 

The frost that freezes the life at my heart, 
Is nought to my pains frae thee, Oh. 

The wan moon is setting behind the whita 
wave, 

And time is setting with me, Oh : 
False friends, false love, farewell ! for ever mair 

I'll ne'er trouble them nor thee, Oh. 

She has open'd the door, she has open'd it wide, 

She sees his pale corse on the plain, Oh : 
My true love, she cried, and sank down by 
his side, 



Never to rise again, Oh. 



I do not know whether this song be really 
mended. 



No. XVI. 

Mb BURNS to Mr THOMSON. 

JESSIE. 

Tune — " Bonnie Dundee." 

True nearted was he, the sad swain o' the 
Yarrow, 
And fair are the maids on the banks o' the 
Ayr, 
But by the sweet side o' the Nith's winding 
river, 
Are lovers as faithful, and maidens as fair ; 
To equal young Jessie seek Scotland ail oyer: 
To equal young Jessie you seek it in vain» 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



197 



Grace, beauty and elegance fetter her lover, 
And maidenly modesty fixes the chain. 

O fresh is the rose in the gay, dewy morning, 

And sweet is the lily at evening close ; 
But in the fair presence o' lovely young Jessie, 

Unseen is the lily, unheeded "the rose. 
Love sits in her smile, a wizard ensnaring; 

Enthron'd in her een he delivers his law : 
And still to her charms she alone is a stranger, 

Her modest demeanor's the jewel of a'. 



The gentleman I have mentioned, whose 
fine taste you are no stranger to, is so well 
pleased both with the musical and poetical part 
of our work, that be has volunteered his assist- 
ance, and has already written four songs for it, 
which, by his own desire, I send for your per- 
usal. 



> 



No. XVIL 
Mb THOMSON to Mr BURNS. 

Edinburgh, 2d April, 1793. 
1 will not recognise the title you give your- 
self, " the prince of indolent correspondents ;" 
Dut if the adjective were taken away, I think 
the title would then fit you exactly. It gives 
me pleasure to find you can furnish anecdotes 
with respect to most of the songs : these will 
be a literary curiosity. 

I now send you my list of the songs, which 
I believe will be found nearly complete. I 
have put down the first lines of all the English 
songs, which I propose giving in addition to 
the Scotch verses. If any others occur to you, 
better adapted to the character of the airs, pray 
mention them, when you favour me with your 
strictures upon every thing else relating to the 
work. 

Pleyel has lately sent me a number of the 
songs, with his symphonies and accompani- 
ments added to them. I wish you were here, 
that I might serve up some of them to you with 
your own verses, by way of desert after dinner. 
There is so much delightful fancy in the sym- 
phonies, and such a delicate simplicity in the 
accompaniments i they are indeed beyond all 
praise. 

I am very much pleased with the several last 
productions of your muse : your Lord Gre- 
gory, in my estimation, is more interesting than 
Peter's, heautiful as his is ! Your Here Awa 
Willie must undergo some alterations to suit 
the air. Mr Erskine and I have been conning 
it over : he will suggest what is necessary to 
make them a fit match.* 



* WANDERING WILLIE. 

HEI) BY MR ERSKINE AND MR THOMSOM. 



Ma BURNS to Mr THOMSON. 

WHEN WILD WAR'S DEADLY 
BLAST WAS BLAWN. 

Air—" The Mill, Mill O." 

When wild war's deadly blast was blawn, 

And gentle peace returning, 
Wi' mony a sweet babe fatherless, 

And mony a widow mourning. 
I left the lines and tented field, 

Where lang I'd been a lodger, 
My humble knapsack a' my wealth, 

A poor and honest sodger. 

A leal, light heart was in my breast, 
My hand unstain'd wi' plunder ; 



Here 
Come ti 



: awa, wandering Willie, 
re uwti, liaud awa hame; 
oin my ain only dearie, 
iring'st me my Willie the si 



Winter-winds I.l.n- in,,,! and avid at „ U r parting, 

Fears f„r ,„,, If,//,, /„„„,!,! /ears in my e'e ; 
Welcome lion simmei , am! welcome my Willie, 



But oh, if he's faithless and minds na his Nannie, 
Flow still between us, thou dark-heaving main! 

May I never see it, may I never trow it, 

While, dying, 1 think that my Willie's my ain 

Our poet, with his usual judgment, adopted some ol 
these alterations, and rejected others. The last edition 
is as follows : — 

Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie, 
Here awa, there awa, hand awa hame ; 
Come to my bosom my ain only dearie, 
Tell me thou bring'st me my Willie the same. 

Winter winds blew loud and cauld at our parting 
Fears for my Willie brought tears in my e'e, 
Welcome now simmer, and welcome my Willie, 
The simmer to nature, my Willie to me. 

Rest, ye wild storms, in tbe cave of your slumbers, 
How your dread bowling a lover alarms I 
Waken ye breezes, row gently ye billows, 
And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my arms. 

But oh, if he's faithless, and minds na his Nannie, 
Flow still between us thou wide.roaring main ■ 



Several of the alterations seem to be of little import, 
ance in themselves, and were adopted, it may be pre- 
sumed, for the sake of suiting tbe words better to the 
music. Tbe Homeric epithet for the sea, dark-hearing, 
suggested by Mr Erskine, is in itself more beautiful, as 
well perhaps as more sublime than wide-roaring, which 
lie lias retained ; but as il is only applicable to a placid 
state of the sea, or at mu-t to the swell left on its sur- 
face after the storm is over, it gives a picture of that 
element not so well adapied to the ideas of eternal se- 
paratioii, which the lair mourner is supposed to impre- 
cate. From the original song of Here awa Willie, Burns 
has borrowed nothing hut the second line and part of 
the first. The superior excellence of this beautiful 
poem will, it is hoped, justify the different editions of it 
which we have given 



i98 

And for fair Scotia, hame again, 

I cheery on did wander. 
1 thought upon the banks o' Coil, 

I thought upon my Nancy, 
I thought upon the witching smile 

That caught my youthful fancy : 

At length I reach'd the bonnie glen, 

Where early life I sported ; 
I pass'd the mill and trysting thorn, 

Where Nancy aft I courted : 
Wha spied I but my ain dear maid, 

Down by her mother's dwelling ! 
And turn'd me round to hide the flood 

That in my een was swelling. 

Wi' alter'd voice, quoth I, sweet lass, 
Sweet as yon hawthorn's blossom, 

! happy, happy may he be, 
That's dearest to thy bosom : 

My purse is light, I've far to gang, 
And fain wad be thy lodger; 

I've serv'd my king and country lang, 
Take pity on a sodger. 

Sae wistfully she gaz'd on me, 

And lovelier was than ever : 
Quo' she, a sodger ance I lo'ed ; 

Forget him shall I never : 
Our humble cot, and hamely fare, 

Ye freely shall partake it, 
That gallant badge, the dear cockade 

Ye're welcome for the sake o't ! 

She gaz'd — she redden'd like a rose — 

Syne pale like ony lily ; 
She sank within my arms, and cried, 

Art thou my ain dear Willie ? 
By Him who made yon sun and sky — 

By whom true love's regarded, 

1 am the man ; and thus may still 

True lovers be rewarded. 

The wars are o'er, and I'm come hame, 

And find thee still true hearted ; 
Tho' poor in gear, we're rich in love, 

And mair we'se ne'er be parted. 
Quo' she, my grandsire left me gowd, 

A mailin plenish'd fairly ; 
And come, my faithful sodger lad, 

Thou'rt welcome to it dearly ! 

For gold the merchant ploughs the main, 

The farmer ploughs the manor ; 
But glory is the sodger's prize, 

The sodger's wealth is honour ; 
The brave poor sodger ne'er despise, 

Nor count him as a stranger ; 
Remember he's his country's stay 

In day and hour of danger. 



BURNS' WORKS. 



MEG O' THE MILL. 
Air— " O Bonnie Lass will you lie in a Barrack ! w 

O ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten, 
An' ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten ? 
She has gotten a coof wi' a claut o' siller, 
And broken the heart o' the barley Miller. 

The Miller was strappin',tbe Miller was ruddyj 
A heart like a lord and a hue like a lady ; 
The Laird was a widdiefu', bleerit knurl ; 
She's left the guid fellow and ta'en the churl. 

The Miller he hecht her, a heart leal and lov- 
ing ; 

The Laird did address her wi? matter mail 
moving : 

A fine pacing horse wi' a clear chained bridle, 

A whip by her side, and a bonnie side-saddle. 

O wae on the siller, it is sae prevailing ; 
And wae on the love that's fix'd on a mailin ! 
A tocher's nae word in a true lover's parle, 
But, gie me my love, and a fig for the warl ' 



Mr BURNS to Mr THOMSON 

7th April, 1793. 
Thank you, my dear sir, for your packet. 
You cannot imagine how much this business 
of composing for your publication has added to 
my enjoyments. What with my early attach- 
ment to ballads, your book, &c. ballad-making 
is now as completely my hobby-horse, as ever 
fortification was Uncle Toby's ; so I'll e'en 
canter it away till I come to the limit of my 
race, (God grant that I may take the right 
side of the winning-post !) and then cheerfully 
looking back on the honest folks with whom 1 
have been happy, I shall say, or sing, " Sae 
merry as we a' hae been," and raising my last 
looks to the whole human race, the last words 
of the voice of Coila* shall be " Good night 
and joy be wi' you a' !" So much for my last 
words ; now for a few present remarks as they 
have occurred at random on looking over your 
list. 

The first lines of The last time I came o'er 
the Moor, and several other lines in it, are 
beautiful : but in my opinion — pardon me, re- 
vered shade of Ramsay ! the song is unworthy 
of the divine air. I shall try to make, or mend. 
For ever, Fortune wilt thou prove, is a charming 
song ; but Logan burn and Logan braes, are 
sweetly susceptible of rural imagery : I'll try 



• Burns here calls himself the Voice of Coila, in imi- 
tation of Ossian, who denominates himself the Voice of 
Cona. Sae merry as we a' hae been, and Good night 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



199 



that likewise, and if I succeed, the other song 
may class among the English ones. I remem- 
ber the two last lines of a verse in some of the 
old songs of Logan Water, (for I know a good 
many different ones) which I think pretty : 

Now my dear lad maun face his faes, 
Far, far fiae me and Logan braes." 

My Patie is a lover gay, is unequal. " His 
mind is never muddy," is a muddy expression 
indeed. 

" Then I'll resign and marry Pate, 

And syne my cockemony." 

This is surely far unworthy of Ramsay, or 
your book. My song, Rigs of Barley, to the 
same tune, does not altogether please me, but 
if I can mend it, and thresh a few loose sen- 
timents out of it, I will submit it to your con- 
sideration. The Lass o' Putie's Mill is one of 
Ramsay's best songs ; but there is one loose 
sentiment in it, which my much -valued friend, 
Mr Erskine, will take into his critical con- 
sideration. In Sir J. Sinclair's Statistical 
volumes are two claims, one, I think, from 
Aberdeenshire, and the other from Ayrshire, 
for the honour of this song. The following 
anecdote, which I had from the present Sir 
William Cunningham, of Robertland, who had 
it of the late John, Earl of Loudon, I can on 
such authorities believe. 

Allan Ramsay was residing at Loudon Cas- 
tle with the then Earl, father to Earl John ; 
and one forenoon, riding, or walking out to- 
gether, his Lordship and Allan passed a sweet, 
romantic spot on Irvvine water, still called 
" Patie's Mill," where a bonnie lass was 
" tedding hay, bareheaded on the green." My 
Lord observed to Allan, that it would be a fine 
theme for a song. Ramsay took the hint, and 
lingering behind, he composed the first sketch 
of it, which he produced at dinner. 

One day 1 heard Mary say, is a fine song ; 
but for consistency's sake, alter the name 
" Adonis." Was there ever such banns pub- 
lished, as a purpose of marriage between Ado- 
nis and Mary ? I agree with you that my song, 
There's nought but cure o?i every hand, is much 
superior to Poortith cauld. The original song 
The mill, null O, though excellent, is, on ac- 
count of delicacy, inadmissible ; still I like the 
title, and think a Scottish song would suit the 
notes best ; and let your chosen song, which is 
very pretty, follow, as an English set. The 
Banks of the Dee is, you know, literally Lan- 
golee to slow time. The song is well enough, 
but has some false imagery in it, for instance, 

" And sweetly the nightingale sung from the 



In the first place, the nightingale sings in a 
-ovv bush, but never from a tree ; and in the 
second place, there never was a nightingale 
seen or heard on the hanks of the Dee, or on 



the banks of any other river in Sootland 
Exotic rural imagery is always comparatively 
flat. If I could hit on another stanza equai 
to The small birds rejoice, &c. I do myself 
honestly avow that I think it a superior song. ■ 
John Anderson my jo — the song to this tune ir. 
Johnson's Museum, is my composition, and I 
think it not my worst : If' it suit you, take it 
I and welcome. Your collection of sentimental 
and pathetic songs, is in my opinion, very com- 
plete ; but not so your comic ones. Where are 
Tullochgorum, Lumps o' pitddin, Tibbie Fow- 
ler, and several others, which, in my humble 
judgment, are well worthy of preservation. 
There is also one sentimental song of mine in 
the Museum, which never was known out of 
the immediate neighbourhood, until I got it 
taken down from a country girl's singing. It 
is called Craigieburn Wood ,- and in the opinion 
of Mr Clarke, is one of our sweetest Scottish 
songs. He is quite an enthusiast about it ; 
and I would take his taste in Scottish music 
against the taste of most connoisseurs. 

You are quite right in inserting the last five 
in your list, though tbey are certainly Irish 
Shepherds 1 have lost my love, is to me a 
heavenly air — what would you think of a set 
of Scottish verses to it ? I have made one to 
it a good while ago, which I think ... 
. . . . but in its original state is not quite a 
lady's song. I enclosed an altered, not amend- 
ed copy for you, if you choose to set the tune 
to it, and let the Irish verses follow, t 

Mr Erskine's songs are all pretty, but his 
Lone vale is divine. 

Yours, &c. 

Let me know just how you like these ran- 
dom hits. 



No. XX. 
Mr THOMSON to Mr BURNS. 

Edinburgh, April, 1793. 
I rejoice to find, my dear sir, that ballad- 
making continues to be your hobby horse. 
Great pity 'twould be were it otherwise. 1 
hope you will amble it away for many a year 
and "witch the world with your horseman- 
ship." 



• It will be found in the course of this correspon. 

dence, that the Bard produced a second stanza of Tin 
C/im-ulier's Lamm/, (to which he here alludes) worthy 
of the first. 

f Mr Thomson, it appears, did not approve of this 
sontr, even in its altered .late. II does nor appear in the 
correspondence : hut is probably one to be found in his 
MSS. begiiining,- 

"Yestreen I got a pint of wine, 
A place where body saw na : 
Yestreen lay on this breast of mine, 
The gowden locks of Anna." 



is it should be allied. 



200 



BURNS' WORKS. 



I know there are a pood many liveli/ songs 
of merit that I have not put down in the list 
sent you ; but I have them all in my eye. My 
Palie is a lover (jay, though a little unequal, is 
a natural and very pleasing song, and I humbly 
think we ought not to displace or alter it, ex- 
cept the last stanza. * 



Mr BURNS to Mr THOMSON. 

April, 1793. 
I have yours, my dear sir, this moment. I 
shall answer it and your former letter, in my 
desultory way of saying whatever comes up- 
permost. 

The business of many of our tunes wanting, 
at the beginning, what fiddlers call a starting- 
note, is often a rub to us poor rhymers. 

" There's braw, braw lads on Yarrow brses, 
That wander thro' the blooming heather.' 



ids on Yarrow bra 



You may alter to 
" Braw, braw 

My song, Here aiva there awa, as mended by 
Mr Erskine, I entirely approve of, and re- 
turn you.f 

Give me leave to criticise your taste in the on- 
ly thing in which it is in my opinion reprehen- 
sible. You know I ought to know something 
of my own trade. Of pathos, sentiment, and 
point, you are a complete judge ; but there is 
a quality more necessary than either, in a song, 
and which is the very essence of a ballad, I 
mean simplicity ; now, if I mistake not, this 
last feature you are a little apt to sacrifice to 
the foregoing. 

Ramsay, as every other poet, has not been 
always equally happy in his pieces : still I can- 
not approve of taking such liberties with an 
author as Mr W. proposes doing with The last 
time I came o'er the Moor. Let a poet, if he 
chooses, take up the idea of another, and work 
it into a piece of his own ■, but to mangle the 
works of the poor bard, whose tuneful tongue 
is now mute for ever, in the dark and narrow 
house — by Heaven 'twould be sacrilege ! I 
grant that Mr W's version is an improvement; 
but I know Mr W. well, and esteem hitn 
much ; let him amend the song, as the High- 
lander mended his gun : — he gave it a new 
stock, and a new lock, and a new barrel. 



I do not, by this, object to leaving out im- 
proper stanzas, where that can he done without 
spoiling the whole. One stanza in The Lass 
o' Patie's Mill, must be left out : the song will 
be nothing worse for it. I am not sure if we 
can take the same liberty with Corn Rigs are 
bonnie. Perhaps it might want the last stanza, 
and be the better for it. Cauld Kail in Aber- 
deen, you must leave with me yet a while. J 
have vowed to have a song to that air, on the 
lady whom I attempted to celebrate in the 
verses, Poortith cauld and restless Love. At 
any rate, my other song, Green grow the Rash- 
es, will never suit. That song is current in 
Scotland under the old title, and to the merry 
old tune of that name ; which of course would 
mar the progress of your song to celebrity. 
Your book will be the standard of Scots songs 
for the future : let this idea ever keep your 
judgment on the alarm. 

I send a song, on a celebrated toast in this 
country, to suit Bonnie Dundee. I send you 
also a ballad to the Mill, mill O* 

The last time I came o'er the Moor, I would 
fain attempt to make a Scots song for, and let 
Ramsay's be the English set. You shall hear 
from me soon. When you go to London on 
this business, can you come by Dumfries? I 
have still several MS. Scots airs by me which 
I have picked up, mostly from the singing of 
country lasses. They please me vastly; but 
your learned lugs-f would perhaps be displeas- 
ed with the very feature for which I like them. 
I call them simple; you would pronounce them 
silly. Do you know a fine air called Jackie 
Hume's Lament ? I have a song of considerable 
merit to that air. I'll enclose you both the 
song and tune, as I had them ready to send to 
Johnson's Museum f. I send you likewise, 
to me a beautiful little air, which I had taken 
down from viva voce§. 

Adieu ! 



No. XXII. 

Mr BURNS to Mr THOMSON. 

April, 1793. 
Tune—" The last time I came o'er the Moor." 

Farewell thou stream that winding flows 
Around Maria's dwelling ! 



* The original letter from Mr Thoms< 
many observations on the .Scottish songs, 
manner of aea]>;iji-, the words to the music 
his desire, are suppressed. The subsequei 
Mr Burns refers to several of these ohservati 
i The reader has aire -dy seen that Bur 
r ally adopt ah of Mr Erskine's alterations. 



The song to the tune of Bonnie Dundee, is that in 
| No. XVI. The ballad to the Mill, mill 0, is tiiat be- 
pinning. 

" When wild war's deadly blast was blawn." 
| f Ears. 

t The song here mentioned is that given in No. XVIII. 
ken ye what Meg o' tin- mill has unite}!. This song i 3 
surely Mr Burns' own writing, though he does not 
generally praise his own songs so much.— Note by Mr 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



201 



A.h cruel mem'ry ! spare the throes 
Within my bosom swelling: 

(ondeinn'd to drag a hopeless chain, 
And still in secret languish; 

To feel a tire in ev'ry vein, 

Yet dare not speak my anguish. 

The wretch of love, unseen, unknown, 

I fain my crime would cover : 
The bursting sigh, th' unweeting groan 

Betray the hopeless lover. 
I know my doom must be despair, 

Thou wilt, nor canst relieve me ; 
But oh, Maria, hear one prayer, 

For pity's sake forgive me. 

The music of thy tongue I heard, 

Nor wist while it enslav'd me ; 
I saw thine eyes, yet nothing fear'd, 

'Till ftars no more had saved me. 
The unwary sailor thus aghast, 

The wheeling torrent viewing ; 
'Mid circling horrors yields at last 

To overwhelming ruin. 



My Dear Sir, 
J had scarcely put my last letter into the post- 
office, when I took up the subject of The last 
time I came o'er the Moor, and ere I slept drew 
the outlines of the foregoing. How far I have 
succeeded, I leave on this, as on every other oc 
casion, to you to decide. I own my vanity is 
flattered, when you give my songs a place in your 
elegant and superb work ; but to be of service 
to the work is my first wish. As I have often 
told you, I do not in a single instance wish you, 
out of compliment to me, to insert any thing of 
mine. One hint let me give you — whatever 
Mr Pleyel does, let him not alter one iota of 
the original Scottish airs ; I mean, in the song 
department ; but let our national music pre- 
serve its native features. They are, I own, 
frequently wild and irreducible to the more 
modern rules ; but on that very eccentricity, 
perhaps, depends a great part of their effect. 



No. XXIII. 

Mr THOMSON to Mr BURNS. 

Edinburgh, 26th April, 1793. 
I heartily thank you, my dear sir, for your 
last two letters, and the songs which accom- 
panied them. I am always both instructed and 
entertained by your observations ; and the 
frankness with which you speak out your mind, 
is to me highly agreeable. It is very possible 
I may not have the true idea of simplicity in 
composition. I confess there are several songs 
of Allan Ramsay's, for example, that I think 
*illy enough, which another person more con- 



versant than I have been with country people, 
would perhaps call simple and natural. But 
the lowest scenes of simple nature will not 
please generally, if copied precisely as they 
are. The poet, like the painter, must select 
what will form an agreeable as well as a natural 
picture. On this subject it were easy to en- 
large ; but at present suffice it to say, that I 
consider simplicity, rightly understood, as a 
most essential quality in composition, and the 
ground-work of beauty in all the arts. I will 
gladlv appropriate your most interesting new 
ballad When wild war's deadly blast, &c. to the 
Mill, mill. O, as well as the' other two songs 
to their respective airs ; but the third and 
fourth line of the first verses must undergo 
some little alteration in order to suit the music 
Pleyel does not alter a single note of the songs. 
That would be absurd indeed ! With the airs 
which he introduces into the sonatas, I allow 
him to take such liberties as he pleases, but 
that has nothing to do with the songs. 



P. S I wish you would do as you proposed 

with your Rigs o' Barley. If the loose senti- 
ments were threshed out of it, I will find an air 
for it ; but as to this there is no hurry. 



Mr BURNS to Mr THOMSON. 

June, 1793. 
When I tell you, my dear sir, that a friend of 
mine, in whom I am much interested, has 
fallen a sacrifice to these accursed times, you 
will easily allow that it might unhinge me for 
doing any good among ballads. 1 ' My own loss, 
as to pecuniary matters, is trifling; but the 
total ruin of a much-loved friend, is a loss in- 
deed. Pardon my seeming inattention to 
your last commands. 

I cannot alter the disputed lines in the Mill 
mill O. What you think a defect 1 esteem 
as a positive beauty : so you see how doctors 
differ. I shall now, with as much alacrity as 
I can muster, go on with your commands. 

You know Fraser, the hautboy player in 
Edinburgh — he is here instructing a band of 
music for a fencible corps quartered in this 

* The lines were the third and fourth. See p. 1J7. 



202 



BURNS' WORKS. 



country. Among many of tbe airs that please 
me, there is one well known as a reel by the 
name of The Quaker's Wife ; and which I re- 
member a grand aunt of mine used to sing, by 
the name cf Liggeram cosh, my bonny wee lass. 
Mr Fraser plays it slow, and with an expres- j 
sion that quite charms me. I became such an 
enthusiast about it, that I made a song for it, 
which I here subjoin ; and enclose Fraser's set 
of the tune. If they hit your fancy, they are 
at your service ; if not, return me the tune, 
and I will put it in Johnson's Museum. I 
think the song is not in my worst manner 

June — " Liggeram cosh." 

Blythe hae I been on yon hill, 

As the lambs before me ; 
Careless ilka thought and free, 

As the breeze flew o'er me : 
Now nae langer sport and play, 

Mirth or sang can please me : 
Lesley is sae fair and coy, 

Care und anguish seize me. 

Heavy, heavy is the task, 

Hopeless love declaring : 
Trembling, I dow nocht but glowr, 

Sighing, dumb, despairing ' 
If she winna ease the thraws, 

In my bosom swelling ; 
Underneath the grass green sod, 

Soon maun be my dwelling. 

I should wish to hear how this pleases you. 



Mr BURNS to Mr THOMSON. 

January 5, 1793, 
Have you ever, my dear sir, felt your bosom 
ready to burst with indignation on reading of 
those mighty villains who divide kingdom against 
kingdom, desolate provinces, and lay nations 
waste out of the wantonness of ambition, or 
often from still more ignoble passions ? In a 
mood of this kind to day, I recollected the air 
of Logan wuler; and it occurred to me that its 
querulous melody probably had its origin from 
the plaintive indignation of some swelling, 
suffering heart, fired at the tyrannic strides of 
some public destroyer ; and overwhelmed with 
private distress, the consequence of a country's 
ruin. If I have done any thing at all like 
justice to my feelings, the following song, 
composed in three quarters of an hour's medi- 
tation in my elbow chair, ought to have some 
merit. 

Tune—" Logan water. 

O, Logan sweetly didst thou glide, 
That day I was my Willie's bride ; 
And years sinsyne hae o'er us run, 
Like Logan to the simmer sun. 



But now the flowery banks appear 
Like drumlie winter, dark an drear, 
While my dear lad maun face his faes, 
Far, far frae me and Logan braes. 

Again the merry month o' May, 

Has made our hills and valleys gay ; 

The birds rejoice in leafy bowers, 

The bees hum round the breathing flowers 

Blythe morning lifts his rosy eye, 

And evening's tears are tears of joy : 

My soul, delightless, a' surveys, 

While Willie's far frae Logan braes. 

Within yon milk-white hawthorn bush, 
Amang her nestlings sits the thrush : 
Her faithfu' mate will share her toil, 
Or wi' his song her cares beguile ; 
But I, wi' my sweet nurslings here, 
Nae mate to help, nae mate to cheer, 
Pass widow'd nights and joyless days, 
While Willie's far frae Logan braes. 

O wae upon you, men o' state, 
That brethren rouse to deadly hate ! 
As ye make mony a fond heart mourn, 
Sae may it on your heads return ! 
How can your flinty hearts enjoy, 
The widow's tears, the orphan's cry;* 
But soon may peace bring happy days, 
And Willie, hame to Logan braes ! 



Do you know the following beautiful little 
fragment, in Witherspoon's Collection of Scots 
Songs ? 

Air — " Hugliie Graham. 
" O gin my love were yon red rose 

" That grows upon the castle wa', 
" And I mysel' a drap o' dew, 

" Into her bonnie breast to fa' ! 

" Oh, there beyond expression blest, 
" I'd feast on beauty a' the night j 

" Seal'd on her silk-saft faulds to rest, 
" Till fley'd awa by Phoebus' light." 

This thought is inexpressibly beautiful ; 
and quite, so far as I know, original. It is too 
short for a song, else I would forswear you 
altogether, unless'you gave it a place. I have 
often tried to eke a stanza to it, but in vaiia. 
after balancing myself for a musing five minutes, 
on the hind-legs of my elbow chair, I produced 
the following. 

The verses are far inferior to the foregoing, 
I frankly confess ; but if worthy of insertion 
at all, they might be first in place ; as every 
poet, who knows any thing of his trade, will 
husband his best thoughts for a concluding 
stroke. 

* Originally, 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



O were my love yon lilach fair, 
Wi* purple blossoms to the spring ; 

And I a bird to shelter there 

When wearied on my little wing. 

How I wad mourn, when it was torn 
By autumn wild, and winter rude ! 

But I wad sing on wanton wing, 

When youth fu' May its bloom renew'd. 



NO. XXVI. 

Ma THOMSON to Ma BURNS. 

Monday, 1st July, 1793, 
1 am extremely sorry, my good sir, that any 
thing should happen to unhinge you. The 
times are terribly out of tune, and when har- 
mony will be restored, heaven knows. 

The first book of songs, just published, will 
be despatched to you along with this. Let 
me be favoured with your opinion of it frank- 
ly and freely. 

I shall certainly give a place to the song you 
have written for the Quaker's Wife; it is 
quite enchanting. Pray, will you return the 
list of songs, with such airs added to it as you 
think ought to be included. The business now 
rests entirely on myself, the gentleman who 
originally agreed to join in the speculation 
having requested to be off. No matter ; a loser 
J cannot be. The superior excellence of the 
work will create a general demand for it, as 
soon as it is properly known. And were the 
sale even slower than what it promises to be, 
I should be somewhat compensated for my 
labour, by the pleasure I should receive from 
the music. I cannot express how much I am 
obliged to you for the exquisite new songs you 
are sending me; but thanks, my friend, are a 
poor return for what you have done : as I shall 
be benefited by the publication, you must suf- 
fer me to enclose a small mark of my grati- 
tude, * and to repeat it afterwards when I 
find it convenient. Do not return it, for by 
heaven, if you do, our correspondence is at an 
end : and though this would be no loss to you, 
it would mar the publication, which, under 
your auspices, cannot fail to be respectable 
and interesting. 



Wednesday morning. 
I thank you for your delicate additional vers- 
es to the old fragment, and for your excellent 
song to Logan water : Thomson's truly ele- 
gant one will follow for the English singer. 
Your apostrophe to statesmen, is admirable, 
but I am not sure if it is quite suitable to the 
supposed gentle character of the fair mourner 
wno speaks it. 

•L.5. 



NO XXVII. 

Mr BURNS to Ma THOMSON. 

My Dear Sir, July 2, 1793, 

I have just finished the following ballad, and 
as I do think it in my best style, I send it you. 
Mr Clarke, who wrote down the air from Mrs 
Burns' wood-note wild, is very fond of it ; and 
has given it a celebrity by teaching it to some 
young ladies of the first fashion nere. If you 
do not like the air enough to give it a place in 
your collection, please return it. The song you 
may keep, as I remember it. 



There was a lass, and she was fair, 
At kirk and market to be seen'; 

When a' the fairest maids were met, 
The fairest maid was bonnie Jean. 

And aye she wrought her mammie's wark, 
And aye she sang sae merrilie ; 

The blythest bird upon the bush 
Had ne'er a lighter heart than she. 

But hawks will rob the tender joys 
That bless the little lintwhite's nest ; 

And frost will blight the fairest flowers, 
And love will break the soundest rest. 

Young Robie was the brawest lad, 
The flower and pride of a' the glen ; 

And he had owsen, sheep, and kye, 
And wanton naigies nine or ten. 

He gaed wi' Jeanie to the tryst, 
He danced wi' Jeanie on the down ; 

And lang ere witless Jeanie wist, 

Her heart was tint, her peace was stowiu 

As in the bosom o' the stream, 

The moon-beam dwells at dewy e'en ; 

So trembling pure, was tender love 
Within the breast o' bonnie Jean.* 

And now she works her mammie's wark, 
And aye she sighs wi' care and pain ; 

Yet wist na what her ail might be, 
Or what wad mak her weel again. 

But did na Jeanie's heart loup light, 
And did na joy blink in her e'e, 

As Robie tauld a tale o' love 
Ae e'enin, on the lily lea ? 

The sun was sinking in the west, 
The birds sang sweet in ilka grove ; 

His cheek to hers he fondly prest, 
And whisper'd thus his tale o' love. 



O Jeanie fair, I lo'e thee dear ; 

canst thou think to fancy me ? 
Or wilt thou leave thy mammie's cot, 

Aiid learn to tent the farms wi' me. 

At barn or byre thou shalt na drudge, 
Or na; j thing else to trouble thee ; 

But stray amang the heather-bells, 
And tent the waving corn wi' me. 

Now what could artless Jeanie do ? 

She had na will to say him na : 
At length she blushed a sweet consent, 

And love was aye between them twa. 

1 have some thoughts of inserting in your 
index, or in my notes, the names of the fair 
ones, the themes of my songs. I do not mean 
the name at full ; but dashes or asterisms, so 
as ingenuity may find them out. 

The heroine of the foregoing is Miss M. 
daughter to Mr M. of D. one of your subscrib- 
ers. I have not painted her in the rank which 
she holds in life, but in the dress and charac- 
ter of a cottager. 



Mb BURNS to Ma THOMSON. 

July, 1793. 
I assure you, my dear sir, that you truly hurt 
me with your pecuniary parcel. It degrades 
in my own eyes. However, to return it would 
savour of affectation ; but as to any more traffic 
of that debtor and creditor kind, I swear by 
that Honour which crowns the upright statue 
of Robert Burns' Integrity — on the least 
motion of it, I will indignantly spurn the by- 
past transaction, and from that moment com- 
mence entire stranger to you ? Burns' character 
for generosity of sentiment and independence 
of mind will, I trust, long outlive any of his 
wants, which the cold unfeeling ore can sup- 
ply : at least, I will take care that such a char- 
«cter he shall deserve. 

Thank you for my copy of your publication. 
Never did my eyes behold, in any musical 
work, such elegance and correctness. Your 
preface, too, is admirably written ; only, your 
partiality to me has made you say too much ; 
however, it will bind me down to double every 
effort in the future progress of the work. The 
following are a few remarks on the songs in the 
list you sent me. I never copy what I write 
to you, so I may be often tautological, or 
perhaps contradictory. 

The Flowers of the Forest is charming as a 
poem ; and should be, and must be, set to the 
notes ; but, though out of your rule, the three 
stanzas, beginning, 

* I hae seen the smiling o' fortune beguiling," 



BURNS' WORKS. 



are worthy of a place, were it but to immor. 
talize the author of them, who is an old lady of 
my acquaintance, and at this moment living in 
Edinburgh. She is a Mrs Cockburn ; I forget 
of what place ; but from Roxburghshire. What 
a charming apostrophe is 

" O fickle fortune, why this cruel sporting, 
Why, why torment us — poor sons of a day!" 

The old ballad, / wish I ivere where Helen lies, 
is silly, to contemptibility.* My alteration of 
it, in Johnson's, is not much better. Mr Pinker- 
ton, in his, what he calls, Ancient Ballads 
(many of them notorious, though beautiful 
enough forgeries) has the best set. It is full of 
his own interpolations — but no matter. 

In my next, I will suggest to your consider- 
ation, a few songs which may have escaped 
your hurried notice. In the meantime, allow 
me to congratulate you now, as a brother of the. 
quill. You have committed your character and 
fame ; which will now be tried, for ages to 
come, by the illustrious jury of the Sons and 
Daughters of Taste— all whom poesy can 
please, or music charm. 

Being a bard of nature, I have some preten- 
sions to second sight; and I am warranted by 
the spirit to foretell and affirm, that your great 
grandchild will hold up your volumes, and say, 
with honest pride, " This so much admired 
selection was the work of my ancestor." 



No. XXIX. 
Mr THOMSON to Mr BURNS 

Dear Sir, Edinburgh, August, 1793. 

I had the pleasure of receiving your last two 
letters, and am- happy to find you are quite 
pleased with the appearance of the first book. 
When you come to hear the songs sung and 
accompanied, you will be charmed with them. 

The bonnie bruchet Lassie, certainly deserves 
better verses, and I hope you will match her. 
Cauld Kail in Aberdeen, Let me in this ae 
night, and several of the livelier airs, wait the 
muse's leisure : these are peculiarly worthy of 
her choicest gifts ; besides, you'll notice, that 
in the airs of this sort, the singer can always 
do greater justice to the poet, than in the 
slower airs of The bush aboon Traquair, Lord 
Gregory, and the like ; for in the manner the 
latter are frequently sung, you must be con- 
tented with the sound, without the sense. In- 
deed, both the airs and words are disguised by 
the very slow, languid, psalm-singing style in 
which they are too often performed : they lose 
animation and expression altogether, and in- 



of 



* There is a copy of this ballad given in the accr 
>. . ; . : ri,-k- Fleming, (which contains tne 

tomb of Fair Helen Irvine, ) in the statistics of Sir 
John Sinclair, Vol. XIII. p. 275, to which this character 
is certainly not applicable 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



205 



6tead of speaking to the mind, or touching the 
heart, they cloy upon the ear, and set us a yawn, 
ing! 

Your ballad, There was a lass and she was 
fair, is simple and beautiful, and shall undoubt- 
edly grace my collection. 



No- XXX. 
Mb BURNS to Mr THOMSON. 

My Dear Thomson, August, 1793. 

I hold the pen for our friend Clarke, who, at 
present, is studying the music of the spheres 
at my elbow. The Georyium Sidus, he thinks, 
is rather out of tune ; so until he rectify that 
matter, he cannot stoop to terrestrial affairs. 

He sends you six of the Rondeau subjects, 
and if more are wanted, he says you shall have 



Confound your long stairs ! 

S. CLARKE. 



Mr BURNS to Mr THOMsON. 

August 1793. 
Your objection, my dear sir, to the passages 
in my song of Logan Water, is right in one in- 
stance ; but it is difficult to mend it : If I can, 
I will. The other passage you object to does 
not appear in the same light to me. 

I have tried my hand on Robin Adair, and 
you will probably think, with little. success ; 
but it is such a cursed, cramp, out of the way 
measure, that I despair of doing any thing bet- 
ter to it. 



PHILLIS THE FAIR. 

Tune — *' Robin Adair." 

While larks with little wing, 

Fann'd the pure air, 
Tasting the breathing spring, 

Forth I did fare ; 
Gay the sun's golden eye, 
Peep'd o'er the mountains high ; 
Such thy morn ! did I cry, 

Phillis the fair. 

In each bird's careless song, 

Glad, I did share ; 
While yon wild flowers among, 

Chance led me there ; 
Sweet to the opening day, 



Rosebuds bent the dewy spray ; 
Such thy bloom, did I s"ay, 
Phillis the fair. 

Down in a shady walk, 

Doves cooing were, 
I mark'd the cruel hawk 

Caught in a snare : 
So kind may fortune be, 
Such make his destiny ! 
He who would injure thee, 

Phillis the fair. 

So much for namby-pamby. I may, afrer 
all, try my hand on it in Scots verse. There 
I always find myself most at home. 

I have just put the last hand to the song I 
meant for Cauld Kail in Aberdeen. If it suits 
you to insert it, I shall be pleased, as the hero- 
ine is a favourite of mine : if not, I shall alsc 
be pleased ; because I wish, and will be glad, 
to see you act decidedly on the business.* 
'Tis a tribute as a man of taste, and as an edi- 
tor, which you owe yourself. 



No. XXXII. 
Mr THOMSON to Mr BURNS. 

My Good Sir, August, 1793. 

I consider it one of the most agreeable cir- 
cumstances attending this publication of mine, 
that it has procured me so many of your much 
valued epistles. Pray make my acknowledg- 
ments to St Stephen for the tunes : tell him I 
admit the justness of his complaint on my 
stair-case, conveyed in his laconic postscript to 
your jeu d'esprii ; which I perused more than 
once, without discovering exactly whether your 
discussion was music, astronomy, or politics ; 
though a sagacious friend, acquainted with the 
convivial habits of the poet and the musician, 
offered me a bet of two to one, you were just 
drowning care together ; that an empty bowl 
was the only thing that would deeply affect 
you, and the only matter you could then study 
how to remedy ! 

I shall be glad to see you give Robin Adair 
a Scottish dress. Peter is furnishing him with 
an English suit for a change, and you are well 
matched together. Robin's air is excellent, 
though he certainly has an out of the way mea- 
sure as ever poor Parnassian wight was plagued 
with. I wish you would invoke the muse for 
a single elegant stanza to be substituted for the 
concluding objectionable verses of Down the 
burn Davie, so that this most exquisite song 
may no longer be excluded from good company. 

Mr Allan has made an inimitable drawing 
from your John Anderson my Jo, which I am 
to have engraved, as a frontispiece to the hu- 
morous class of songs ; youwill be quite charm- 
ed with it, I promise you. The old couple 
are seated by the fireside. Mrs Anderson, in. 

* file sottjj sent herewith is that in p. 1 93. 



206 



BURNS' WORKS. 



great good humour, is clapping John's^should- 
ers, while he smiles and looks at her with such 
glee, as to show that he fully recollects the 
pleasant days and nights when they were first 
acquent The drawing would do honour to the 
pencil of Teniers. 



No. XXXIII. 

Mr BURNS to Mr THOMSON. 

August, 1793. 
That crinkum-crankum tune, Robin Adair. 
has run so in ray head, and I succeeded so ill 
in my last attempt, that I have ventured in this 
morning's walk, one essay more. You, my 
dear sir, will remember an unfortunate part of 
our worthy friend C.'s story, which happened 
about three years ago. • That struck my fancy, 
and I endeavoured to do the idea justice, as 
follows. 



SONG. 



Had I a cave on some wild, distant shore, 
Where the winds howl to the wave's dashing 
roar: 
There would I weep my woes, 
There seek my last repose, 
Till grief my eyes should close, 
Ne'er to wake more. 

Falsest of womankind, canst thou declare, 
All thy fond plighted vows — fleeting as air ! 

To thy new lover hie, 

Laugh o'er thy perjury, 

Then in thy bosom try, 
What peace is there : 



By the way, I have met with a musical 
Highlander, in Breadalbane's fencibles, which 
are quartered here, who assures me that he 
well remembers his mother's singing Gaelic 
songs to both Robin Adair and Gramachree. 
They certainly have more of the Scotch than 
Irish taste in them. 

This man comes from the vicinity of Inver- 
ness ; so it could not be any intercourse with 
Ireland that could bring them ; — except, what 
I shrewdly suspect to be the case, the wander- 
ing minstrels, harpers, and pipers, used to go 
frequently errant through the wilds both of 
Scotland and Ireland, and so some favourite 
airs might be common to both. — A case in 
point — They have lately, in Ireland, published 
an Irish air, as they say, called " Caun du de- 
lish." The fact is, in a publication of Corri's, a 
great while ago, you will find the same air, 
called a Highland one, with a Gaelic song set 
to it. Its name there, I think, is " Oran 



Gaoil," and a fine air it is. Do ask honest 
Allan, or the Rev. Gaelic Parson, about these 
matters. 



Mr BURNS to Mr THOMSON 

My Dear Sir, August, 1793. 

" Let me in this ae night," I will reconsider. 1 
am glad you are pleased with my song, " Had 
I a cave," &c. as I liked it myself. 

I walked out yesterday evening, with a volume 
of the Museum in my hand ; when turning up 
" Allan Water," " What numbers shall the 
muse repeat," &c. as the words appeared to 
me rather unworthy of so fine an air : and re- 
collecting that it is on your list, I sat and raved 
under the shadow of an old thorn, till I wrote 
out one to suit the measure. I may be wrong; 
but I think it not in my worst style. You 
must know, that in Ramsay's Tea-table, where 
the modern song first appeared, the ancient 
name of the tune, Allan says, is "Allan Water." 
or, *' My love Annie's very bonnie." This 
last has certainly been a line of the original 
song ; so I took up the idea, and, as you will 
see, have introduced the line in its place, which 
I presume it formerly occupied ; though I like- 
wise give you a "choosing line," that should 
not hit the cut of your fancy. 



By Allan-stream I chanced to rove, 

While Phoebus sank beyond Beideddi ;» 
The winds were whispering through the grove, 

The yellow corn was waving ready : 
I listen'd to a lover's sang, 

And thought on youthfu' pleasures mony ; 
And aye the wild-wood echoes rang — 

O dearly do I lo'e thee Annie. f 

O happy be the woodbine bower, 

Nae nightly bogle make it eerie ; 
Nor ever sorrow stain the hour, 

The place and time I met my dearie ! 
Her head upon my throbbing breast, 

She, sinking said, " I'm thine for ever !" 
While mony a kiss the seal imprest, 

The sacred vow, we ne'er should sever 

The haunt o' spring's the primrose braej 

The simmer joys the flocks to follow ; 
How cheery, thro' her shortening day, 

Is autumn in her weeds o' yellow ; 
But can they melt the glowing heart, 

Or chain the soul in speechless pleasure, 
Or thro' each nerve the rapture dart, 

Like meeting her, our bosom's treasure. 



west of Strath- Allan, 3009 feet high 
-R. B. 
+ Or, " O my love Annie's very bonnie — R. B. 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



Bravo ! say I ; it is a good >oug. Should 
you think so too, (not else) you can set the 
music to it, and let the other follow as Eng- 
lish verses. 

Autumn is my propitious season. I make 
more verses in it than in all the year else. 
God bless you ! 



No. XXXV. 

Ma BURNS to Mr THOMSON. 

August, 1793, 
Js " Whistle and I'll come to you, my lad," 
one of your airs ? I admire it much : and yes- 
terday I set the following verses to it. Uibani, 
whom I met with here, begged them of me, as 
he admires the air much ; but as I understand 
that he looks with rather an evil eye on your 
work, I did not choose to comply. However, 
if the song does not suit your taste, I may 
possibly send it to him. The set of the air 
which. I had in my eye, is in Johnson's Mu- 
seum. 



O whistle and I'll come to you, my lad,* 
O whistle and I'll come to you, my lad ; 
Tho' father and mither and a' should gae mad, 
O whistle and I'll come to you, my lad. 

But warily tent when ye come to court me, 
And come nae unless the back-yett be ajee ; 
Syne up the back style, and let nae body see, 
And come as ye were nae comin' to me. 
And come, &c. 
O whistle, £c. 

At kirk, or at marketrrrhene'er ye meet me, 
Gang by me as tho' that ye cared nae a flie ; 
But steal me a blink o' your bonnie black e'e, 
Yet look as ye were nae lookin' at me. 
Yet look, &c. 

O whistle, Sfc. 

Aye vow and protest that ye care na for me, 
And whiles ye may lightly my beauty a wee ; 
But court nae anither, tho' jokin ye be, 
For fear that she wyle your fancy frae me. 
For fear, &c. 

O whistte, Sfc. 



Another favorite air of mine, is, The muckin 
o' Geordie's byre. When sung slow, with ex- 
pression, I have wished that it had had better 

* In some of the MSS. the first four lines run thus : 

O whistle and I'll come to thee, my jo, 
O whistle and I'll come to thee, my jo; 
Tho' father and mother and a' should say no, 
O whistle and I'll come to thee, my jo. 



poetry ; that I have endeavoured to supply as 
follows. 

Adown winding Nith I did wander, 

To mark the sweet flowers as they spring j 

Adown winding Nith I did wander, 
Of Phillis to muse and to sing. 



Awa wi' your belles and your oeauties, 
They never wi' her can compare i 

Whaever has met wi' my Phillis, 
Has met wi' the queen o' the fair. 

The daisy amus'd my fond fancy, 

So artless, so simple, so wild ; 
Thou emblem, said I, o' my Phillis, 

For she is Simplicity's child. 
Awa, &c. 

The rose bud's the blush o' my charmer, 
Her sweet balmy lip when 'tis prestj 

How fair and how pure is the lily, 
But fairer and purer her breast. 
Awa, &c. 

Yon knot of gay flowers in the arbour, 
They ne'er wi' my Phillis can vie ; 

Her breath is the breath o' the woodbine, 
Its dew-drop o' diamond, her eye. 
Awa, &c. 

Her voice is the song of the morning 

That wakes thro' the green-spreading grove, 

When Phoebus peeps over the mountains, 
On music, and pleasure, and love. 
Awa, &c. 

But beauty, how frail and how fleeting, 
The bloom of a fine summer's day ! 

While worth in the mind o' my Phillis 
Will flourish without a decay.* 
Awa, &c. 



Mr Clarke begs you to give Miss Phillis a cor. 
ner in your book, as she is a particular flame 
of his. She is a Miss P. M. sister to bonnie 
Jean. They are both pupils of his. You 
shall hear from me, the very first grist I get 
from my rhyming mill. 



NO XXXVI. 
Mr BURNS to Mr THOMSON 



August, 1793. 
That tune Cauld Kail, is such a favourite of 



* This song-, certainly beautiful, would appear to 
more advantage without the chorus : as is iudeed the 
case with several other songs of our au-lhor. 



20b 



BURNS' WORKS. 



yours, that I once more roved out yesterday 
for a gloamin shot at the muses ; * when the 
muse that presides o'er the shores of Nith, or 
rather my old inspiring dearest nymph, Coila, 
whispered me the following. I have two rea- 
sons for thinking that it waj my early, sweet, 
simple inspirer that was by my elbow, " smooth 
gliding without step," and pouring the song on 
my glowing fancy. In the first place, since I 
left Coila's native haunts, not a fragment of a 
poet has risen to cheer her solitary musings, 
by catching inspiration from her ; so 1 more 
than suspect that she has followed me hither, 
or at least makes me occasional visits ; second- 
ly, the last stanza of this song I send you in 
the very words that Coila taught me many years 
ago, and which I set to an old Scots reel in 
Johnson's Museum. 

Air— "Cauld Kail." 

Come let me take thee to my breast, 

And pledge we ne'er shall sunder 
And I shall spurn as vilest dust 

The waiid's wealth and grandeur : 
And do I hear my Jeanie own, 

That equal transports move her ? 
I ask for dearest life alone 

That I may live to love her. 

Thus in my arms, wi' a' thy charms, 

I clasp my countless treasure ; 
I'll seek nae mair o' heaven to share, 

Than sic a moment's pleasure : 
And by thy een, sae bonnie blue, 

I swear I'm thine for ever ! 
And on thy lips I seal my vow. 

And break it shall I never. 

If you think the above will suit your idea of 
your favourite air, I shall be highly pleased. 
The last time I came o'er the Moor, I cannot 
meddle with, as to mending it : and the musi- 
cal world have been so long accustomed to 
Ramsay's words, that a different song, though 
positively superior, would not be so well re- 
ceived, I am not fond of choruses to songs, 
bo I have not made one for the foregoing. 



No. XXXVII. 
Ma BURNS to Ma THOMSON. 
August, 1793. 
DAINTY DAVIE. 

Now rosy May comes in wi' flowers, 

To deck her gay, green spreading bowers ; 

And now comes in my happy hours, 



To wander wi' my Davie. 



* Gloamin,— twilight, propably from glooming j 
eautiliil poetical word winch ooght to oe adapted i 
EmjlanA A eloamin-shot, a twilignt interview- 



Meet me on the warlock know 
Dainty Davie, dainty Davie, 

There I'll spend the day wi' you, 
My ain dear dainty Davie. 

The crystal waters round us fa', 
The merry birds are lovers a', 
The scented breezes round us blaw, 
A wandering wi' my Davie, 
Meet me, &c. 

When purple morning starts the hare 
To steal upon her early fare, 
Then thro' the dews I will repair, 
To meet my faithfu' Davie, 
Meet me, &c. 

When day, expiring in the west, 
The curtain draws o' nature's rest, 
I flee to his arms I lo'e best, 
And that's my ain dear Davie. 



Meet me on the warlock knowe, 
Bonnie Davie, dainty Davie, 

There I'll spend the day wi you, 
My ain dear dainty Davie.* 

So much for Davie. The chorus, you know, 
is to the low part of the tune. See Clarke's 
set of it in the Museum. 

N. B. In the Museum they have drawled 
out the tune to twelve lines of poetry, which 

is nonsense. Four lines of song, and 

four of chorus, is the way. 



No. XXXVIII. 

Ma THOMSON to Ma BURNS- 

My Dear Sir, Edinburgh, 1st Sept. 1793 
Since writing you last, I have received half a 
dozen songs, with which I am delighted beyond 
expression. The humour and fancy of Whistle 
and I'll come to you, my lad, will render it near- 
ly as great a favourite as Duncan Gray. Come 
let me take thee to my hreast, Adown winding 
Nith, and By Allan stream, &c. are full of ima- 
gination and feeling, and sweetly suit the airs 
for which they are intended. Had I a cave 
on some wild distant shore, is a striking and af- 
fecting composition. Our friend, to whose 
story it refers, read it with a swelling heart, I 
assure you. The union we are now forming, 
I think can never be broken ; these songs of 
yours will descend with the music to the latest 



_ 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



209 



josterity, and will be fondly cherished so long 
a< genius, taste, and .ensibility exist in our is- 
land. 

While the muse seems so propitious, I 
think it right to inclose a list of all the fa- 
vours I Lave to ask of her, no tewer than 
twenty and three ! I have burdened the pleas- 
ant Peter with as many as it is probable he 
will attend to : most of the remaining airs 
would puzzle the English poet not a little ; 
they are of that peculiar measure and rhythm, 
that they must be familiar to him who writes 
for them. 



No. XXXIX. 

Mr BURNS to Mr THOMSON. 

Sept 1793. 
You may readily trust, m;, aear sir, that any 
exertion in my power is heartily at your ser- 
vice. But one thing I must hint to you ; the 
very name of Peter Pindar is of great service 
to your publication, so get a verse from him 
now and then ; though I have no objection, 
as well as I can, to bear the burden of the busi- 
ness. 

You know that my pretensions to musical 
taste, are merely a few of nature's instincts, 
untaught and untutored by art. For this rea- 
son, many musical compositions, particularly 
wnere much of the merit lies in counterpoint; 
however they may transport and ravish the 
ears of you connoisseurs, affect my simple 
lug no otherwise than merely as melodious din. 
On the other hand, by way of amends, 1 am 
delighted with many little melodies, whicli the 
learned musician despises as silly and insipid. 
I do not know whether the old air Hey tuttie 
taittie may rank among this number; but well 
I know that, with Fraser's hautboy, it has of- 
ten filled my eyes with tears. There is a tra- 
dition, which 1 have met with in many places 
of Scotland, that it was Robert Bruce's march 
at the battle of Bannockburn. This thought, 
in my solitary wanderings, warmed me to a 
pitch of enthusiasm on the theme of Liberty 
and Independence, which I threw into a kind 
of Scottish ode, fitted to the air that one might 
suppose to be the gall; jit Royal Scot's address 
to his heroic followers on that eventful morn- 
ing.* 



* This noble strain was conceived by our poet during 
a storm among the wilds of Glen-Ken in Galloway. A 
morefinished copy will be found afterwards. 



BRUCE TO HIS TROOPS. 

ON THE EVE 01 THE BATTLE OK BANNOCKBUi^ 

To its own Tune. 

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, 
Scots wham Bruce has aften led ; 
Welcome to your gory bed, 
Or to victorie. 

Now's the day, and now's the hour ; 
See the front o' battle lour ; 
See approach proud Edward's power — 
Chains and slaverie ! 

Wha will be a traitor-knave ? 
Wha can fill a coward's grave ? 
Wha sae base as be a slave ? 
Let him turn and flee 

Wha tor Scotland's king an . law 
Freedom's sword will strongly draw 
Free-man stand, or Free-man fa' 
Let him follow me ! 

By oppression's woes and pains 
By your sons in servile chains ! 
We will drain our dearest veins, 
But they shall be free ! 

Lay the proud usurpers low ! 
Tyrants fall in every foe ! 
Liberty's in every blow ! 
Let us do, or die ! 



So may God ever defend the cause of Truth 
and Liberty, as he did that day ! — Amen. 

P. S — I showed the air to Urbani, who was 
highly pleased with it, and begged me to make 
soft verses for it ; but I had no idea of giving 
myself any trouble on the subject, till the ac- 
cidental recollection of that glorious struggle 
for freedom, associated with the glowing ideas 
of some other struggles of the same nature, 
not quite so ancient, roused my rhyming ma- 
nia. Clarke's set of the tune, with his bass, 
you will find in the Museum ; though I am 
afraid that the air is not what will entitle it to 
a place in your elegant selection. 



Mr BURNS to Mr THOMSON. 

Sept. 1793. 
I dare say, my dear sir, that you will begin 
to think my correspondence is persecution. 
No matter, 1 can't help it ; a ballad is my hob- 
by-horse; which, though otherwise a simple 
soil of harmless, idiotical beast enough, has 
O 



210 



BURNS' WORKS. 



yet this blessed headstrong property, that when 
once it has fairly made off with a hapless wight, 
it gets so enamoured with the tinkle-gingle, 
tinkle-gingle of its own bells, that it is sure to 
run poor pil-garlick, the bedlam jockey, quite 
beyond any useful point or post in the common 
race of man. 

The following song I have composed for 
Oran-gaoil, the Highland air that you tell me, 
in your last, you have resolved to give a place 
to in your book. I have this moment finished 
the song ; so you have it glowing from the mint. 
If it suit you, well ! if not, 'tis also well ! 



Tune—" Oran-gaoil." 

Behold the hour, the boat arrive ; 

Thou goest, thou darling of my heart ; 
Sever'd from thee can I survive — 

But fate has will'd, and we must part 
I'll often greet this surging swell, 

Yon distant isle will often hail : 
" E'en here, I took the last farewell ; 

" There latest mark'd her vanish'd sail." 

Along the solitary shore, 

While flitting sea fowl round me cry, 
Across the rolling, dashing roar. 

I'll westward turn my wistful eye : 
Happy, thou Indian grove, I'll say, 

Where now my Nancy's path may be ! 
While thro' thy sweets she loves to stray, 

O tell me, does she muse on me ! 



Ma THOMSON to Mr BURNS. 

Edinburgh, 5th Sept. 1793. 
I believe it is generally allowed that the great- 
est modesty is the sure attendant of the great- 
est merit. While you are sending me verses 
that even Shakspeare might be proud to own, 
you speak of them as if they were ordinary pro- 
ductions ! Your heroic ode is to me the no- 
blest composition of the kind in the Scottish 
language. I happened to dine yesterday with 
a party of your friends, to whom I read it. 
They were all charmed with it, entreated me 
to find out a suitable air for it, and reprobated 
the idea of giving it a tune so totally devoid of 
interest or grandeur as Hey tuttie taittie. As- 
suredly your partiality for this tune must arise 
from the ideas associated in your mind by the 
tradition concerning it, for I never heard any 
person, — and I have conversed again and again 
with the greatest enthusiasts for Scottish airs 
—I say I never heard any one speak of it as 
worthy of notice. 

1 have been running over the whole nun 
fired airs, of which I lately sent you the list ; 



and I think Lewie Gordon is most happily 
adapted to your ode ; at least with a very short 
variation of the fourth line, which I shall pre- 
sently submit to you. There is in Lewie 
Gordon more of the grand than the plaintive, 
particularly when it is sung with a degree of 
spirit, which your words would oblige the 
singer to give it. I would have no scruple 
about substituting your ode in the room of 
Lewie Gordon, which has neither the interest, 
the grandeur, nor the poetry that characterise 
your verses. Now the variation I have to 
suggest upon the last line of each verse, the only 
line too short for the air, is as follows : 
Verse 1st, Or to glorious victorie. 

2d, Chains — chains and slaverie. 

3d, Let him, let him turn and Hie. 

itk, Let him bravely follow me. 

5th, But they shall, they shall be free. 

6tk, Let us, let us do, or die ! 
If you connect each line with its own verse, 
I do not think you will find that either the 
sentiment or the expression loses any of its 
energy. The only line which I dislike in the 
whole of the song is, " Welcome to your gory 
bed." Would not another word be preferable 
to welcome ? In your next I will expect to be 
informed whether you agree to what I have 
proposed. These little alterations I submit 
with the greatest deference. 

The beauty of the verses you have made 
for Oran-gaoil will insure celebrity to the air. 



Ma BURNS to Ma. THOMSON 

September, 1793. 
I have received your list, my dear sir, and hers 
go my observations on it.* 

Down the burn Davie. I have this moment 
tried an alteration, leaving out the last half of 
the third stanza, and the first half of the last 
stanza, thus : 

As down the burn they took their way, 

And thro' the flowery dale ; 
His cheek to hers he aft did lay, 

And love was aye the tale. 

With " Mary, when shall we return, 

Sic pleasure to renew ;" 
Quoth Mary, " Love, I like the burn, 

And aye shall follow you."f 

Thro' the wood laddie — I am decidedly of 
opinion, that both in this and There'll never be 



* Mr Thomson's list of song's for his publication. In 
his remarks, the bard proceeds in order, and goes through 
the whole ; but on many of them he merely signifies his 
approbation. All his remarks of any importance ar« 
presented to the reader. 

+ This alteration Mr Thomson has adopted, (or a! 
least intended to adopt,) instead of the original song 
which is objectionable in point of delicacy. 



I 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



211 



peace till Jamie comes ham?., the second or high 
part of the tune being a repetition of the first 
part an octave higher, is only for instrumental 
music, and would be much better omitted in 
singing. 

Cowden-knowes- Remember in your index 
that the song in pure English to this tune, be- 
ginning 

"When summer comes, the swains on Tweed," 
is the production of Crawford : Robert was 
his Christian name. 

Laddie lie near me, must lie by me for some 
time. I do not know the air; and until I am 
complete master of a tune, in my own singing, 

Sich as it is,) I never can compose for it. 
y way is : I consider the poetic sentiment 
correspondent to my idea of the musical ex- 
pression ; then choose my theme ; begin one 
stanza; when that is composed, which is gener- 
ally the most difficult part of the business, I 
walk out, sit down now and then, look out for 
objects in nature around me, that are in uni- 
son or harmony with the cogitations of my fan- 
cy, and workings of my bosom ; humming 
every now and then the air, with the verses I 
have framed. When I feel my music begin- 
ning to jade, I retire to the solitary fireside of 
my study, and there commit my effusions to 
paper ; swinging at intervals on the hind legs 
of my elbow-chair, by way of calling forth my 
own critical strictures, as my pen goes on. 
Seriously, this at home, is almost invariably my 
way. 

What cursed egotism ! 

Gill Morice I am for leaving out. It is a 
plaguey length ; the air itself is never sung : 
and its place can well be supplied by one or 
two songs for fine airs that are not in your 
list. For instance, Craigieburn-wood and Moy's 
Wife- The first, beside its intrinsic merit, has 
novelty; and the last has high merit, as well 
as great celebrity. I have the original words of 
a song for the last air, in the hand-writing of 
the lady who composed it ; and they are supe- 
rior to any edition of the song which the public 
has yet seen.* 

Highland laddie. The old set will please a 
mere Scotch ear best ; and the new an Ital- 
ianized one. There is a third, and what Os- 
wald calls the old Highland laddie, which 
pleases me more than either of them. It is 
sometimes called Ginglan Johnnie; it being the 
air of an old humorous tawdry song of that 
name. You will find it in the Museum, Ihae 
been at Crookie-den, &c. I would advise you, 
in this musical quandary, to offer up your pray- 
ers to the muses for inspiring direction ; and in 
the meantime, waiting for this direction, bestow 
a libation to Bacchus ; and there is not a doubt 
but you will hit on a judicious choice. Pro- 
bntum est. 

Auld Sir Simon, I must beg you to leave out, 
and put in its place, The Quaker's wife. 

* This song, so much admired by our bard, will be 
found in the iuture part of the volume. 

OS 



Blythe hae I been o'er the hill is one ot the 
finest songs ever I made in my life ; and besides 
is composed on a young lady, positively the 
most beautiful, lovely woman in the world. 
As I purpose giving you the names and desig- 
nations of" all my heroines, to appear in some 
future edition of your works, perhaps half a 
century hence, you must certainly include the 
bonniest lass in a' the warld in your collection. 
Daintie Davie I have heard sung, nineteen 
, thousand, nine hundred and ninety nine times, 
J and always with the chorus to the low part of 
J the tune; and nothing has surprised me so 
I much as your opinion on this subject. If it 
! will not suit, as I proposed, we will lay two 
of the stanzas together, and then make the 
chorus follow. 

" Fee him father" — I inclose you Fraser's 
set of this tune when he plays it slow ; in fact, 
he makes it the language of despair. I shall 
here give you two stanzas in that style ; mere- 
ly to try if it will be any improvement. Were 
I it possible, in singing, to give it half the pathos 
| which Fraser gives it in playing, it would make 
an admirable pathetic song. I do not give 
! these verses for any merit they have. I com- 
posed them at the time in which " Patie Allan's 
mither died, that was about the back o' mid- 
night ;" and by the leeside of a bowl of punch, 
which had overset every mortal in company, 
except the hautbois and the muse. 



Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, Thou hast left 

me ever, 
Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, Thou hast left 

me ever. 
Aften hast thou vow'd that death, Only should 

us sever, 
Now thou's left thy lass for aye — I maun see 

thee never, Jamie, 
I'll see thee never.* 

Thou hast me forsaken. Jamie, Thou hast me 

forsaken. 
Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie, Thou hast me 

forsaken, 
Thou canst love anither jo, While my heart 

is breaking : 
Soon my weary e'en I'll close — Never mair to 

waken, Jamie, 
Ne'er mair to waken. t 

" Jocky and Jenny" I would discard, and in 
its place would put " There's nae luck about 
the house," which has a very pleasant air ; and 
which is positively the finest love-ballad in that 
style in the Scottish, or perhaps in any other 
language. " When she cam ben she bobbet," 



*The Scottish (the Editor uses the word substantive- 
ly, as the English) employ the abbreviation I'll for 1 
shall as well as / will ; and it is for / shall it is used 
here In Annandale, as in the northern counties oi 
England, for I shall they use I'se. 

f This is the whole of the song. The bard never pro. 
ceeded farther. — Note by Mr Thunuun. 



212 



BURNS' WORKS. 



as an air, is more beautiful than either, and in 
the andante way, would unite with a charm, 
ing sentimental ballad. 

" Saw ye my father" is one of my greatest 
favourites. The evening before last, I wan- 
dered out and began a tender song ; in what I 
think is its native style. I must premise that 
the old way, and the way to give most effect, 
is to have no starting note, as the fiddlers call 
it, but to burst at once into the pathos. Every 
country girl sings — « Saw ye my father," &c. 

My song is but just begun ; and I should 
like, before I proceed, to know your opinion of 
it I have sprinkled it with the Scottish dia. 
lect, but it may be easily turned into correct 



FRAGMENT. 

Tune — " Saw ye my father." 

Where are the joys I hae met in the morning, 
That danc'd to the lark's early sang ? 

Where is the peace that awaited my wandering, 
At e'enin' the wild woods amang ? 

Nae mair a-winding the course o' yon river, 
And marking sweet flow'rets sae fair ; 

Nae mair I trace the light footsteps o' pleasure, 
But sorrow and sad sighing care. 

Is it that summer's forsaken our valleys, 

And grim surly winter is near ? 
No, no ; the bees humming round the gay roses 

Proclaim it the pride o' the year. 

Fain would I hide, what I fear to discover, 
Yet lang, lang too well hae I known ; 

A' that has caused the wreck in my bosom 
Is Jenny, fair Jenny alone. 



CETERA DESUNT. 

" Todlin' hame." Urbani mentioned an 
idea of his, which has long been mine ; that 
this air is highly susceptible of pathos ; accord- 
ingly, you will soon hear him, at your concert, 
try it to a song of mine in the Museum, " Ye 
banks and braes o' bonnie Doon." — One song 
more and I have done. " Auld lang syne." 
The air is but " mediocre ;" but the following 
song, the old song of the olden times, and 
which has never been in print, nor even in 
manuscript, until I took it down from an old 
man's singing, is enough to recommend any 



AULD LANG SYNE. 

Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 

And never brought to min' ? 
Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 
a' Ian 



And days o' lang syne ? 



For auld lang syne, my q c «», 

For auld lang syne, 
We'll tak' a cup o' kindness yet, 

For auld lang syne. 

We twa hae run about the braes, 

And pou't the gowans fine ; 
But we've wandered mony a weary foot 

Sin auld lang syne. 

For auld, &c. 

We twa hae paidelt i' the burn, 

Frae mornin' sun till dine : 
But seas between us braid hae roa , 

Sin auld lang syne. 

For auld, &c. 

And here's a hand, my trusty fiere, 

And gie's a hand o' thine ; 
And we'll tak' a right guid willie-waught, 

For auld lang syne. 

For auld, &c. 

And surely ye'll be your pint-stowp, 

And surely I'll be mine ! 
And well tak' a cup o' kindness yet, 

For auld lang syne.* 

For auld, &c. 



Now, I suppose I have tired your patience 
fairly. You must, after all is over, have a 
number of ballads, properly so called. ' Gill 
Morice, Tranent Muir, M'Pherson's Fare- 
well, Battle of Sberiff-muir,' or ' We ran and 
rbey ran, (I know the author of this charming 
ballad, and his history), Hardiknute, Barbara 
Allan,' (I can furnish a finer set of this tune 
than any that has yet appeared), and besides, 
do you know that I really have the old tune to 
which ' The Cherry and the Slae ' was sung ; 

d which is mentioned as a well known air 
in Scotland's Complaint, a book published be- 
fore poor Mary's days. It was then called 
' The banks o' Helicon ;' an old poem which 
Pinkerton has brought to light. You will see 
all this in Tytler's History of Scottish Music. 
The tune to a learned ear, may have no great 
merit ; but it is a great curiosity. I have a 
good many original things of this kind. 



Mr BURNS to Mr THOMSON. 

September, 1793. 
I am happy, my dear sir, that my ode pleases 
you so much. Your idea, " honour's bed," is. 



9 excellent— It !& 



COBRESPONDENCE. 



213 



though a beautiful, aharkneyed idoa : so, if you 
please, we will let the line stand as it is. J 
have altered the song as follows : — 

BANNOCK-BURN. 

ROBERT BRUCE'S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY 

Scots, wha bae wi' Wallace bled ; 
Scots, wbam Bruce has aften led ; 
Welcome to your gory bed, 
Or to glorious victory, 

Now's the day, and now's the hour ; 
See the front o' battle lour ; 
See approach proud Edward's power — 
Edward ! chains and slavery ! 

Wha will be a traitor knave ? 
Wha can fill a coward's grave ? 
Wha sae base as be a slave ? 
Traitor ! coward ! turn and ilee ! 

Wha for Scotland's king and law 
Freedom's sword will strongly draw! 
Free-man stand, or free-man fa', 
Caledonian ! on wi' me ! 

By oppression's woes and pains ! 
By your sons in servile chains ! 
We will drain our dearest veins, 
But they shall be — shall be free ! 

Lay the proud usurpers low . 
Tyrants fall in every foe ! 
Liberty's in every blow ! 
Forward ! let us do, or die ! 



N. B. — I have borrowed the last stanza from 
the common stall edition of Wallace. 

" A false usurper sinks in every foe, 
And liberty returns with every blow." 

A couplet worthy of Homer. Yesterday 
you had enough of my correspondence. The 
post goes, and my head aches miserably. 
One comfort 



i7iie conuoic ; 1 suner so mucn, just now, 
in this world, for last night's joviality, that I 
shall escape scot-free for it in the world to 
come. Amen ! 



No. XLIV. 

Mr THOMSON to Mr BURNS. 

12th Sept. 1793. 
A thousand thanks to you, my dear sir, for 
your observations on the list of my songs. I 
am happy to find your ideas so much in unison 
with my own respecting the generality of the 
airs, as well as the verses. About them we 



differ, but there is no disputing about hobby- 
horses. I shall not fail to profit by the re- 
marks you make; and to re-consider the whole 
with attention. 

" Daintie Davie" must be sung two stanzas 
together, and then the chorus — 'tis the proper 
way. I agree with you, that there may be 
something of pathos, or tenderness at least, in 
the air of " Fee him, father," when performed 
with feeling ; but a tender cast may be given 
almost to any lively- air, if you sing it very 
slowly, expressively, and with serious words. 
I am, however, clearly, and invariably for re- 
taining the cheerful tunes joined to their own 
humorous verses, wherever the verses are pass- 
able. But the sweet song for " Fee him, fa- 
ther," which you began about the back of mid- 
night, I will publish as an additional one. Mr 
James Balfour, the king of good fellows, and 
the best singer of the lively Scottish ballads 
that ever existed, has charmed thousands of 
companies with " Fee him, father," and with 
" Todlin hame" also, to the old words, which 
never should be disunited from either of these 
airs. Some Bacchanals I would wish to dis- 
card. " Fy let us a' to the bridal," for instance, 
is so coarse and vulgar, that I think it fit only 
to be sung in a company of drunken colliers ; 
and " Saw ye my father" appears to me both 
indelicate and silly. 

One word more with regard to your heroic 
ode. I think, with great deference to the poet, 
that a prudent general would avoid saying any 
thing to his soldiers which might tend to make 
death more frightful than it is. Gory, presents 
a disagreeable image to the mind ; and to teil 
them, " Welcome to your gory bed, seems 
rather a discouraging address, notwithstanding 
the alternative which follows. I have shown 
the song to three friends of excellent taste, and 
each of them objected to this line, which embol- 
dens me to use the freedom of bringing it 
again under your notice. I would sugges*-, 

" Now prepare for honour's bed, 



Mr BURNS to Mr THOMSON. 

September, 1793 
Who will decide when doctors disagree '' 
My ode pleases me so much that I cannot all 
ter it. Your proposed alterations would, in 
my opinion, make it tame. I am exceedingly 
obliged to you for'putting me on re-considerin 
it ; as I think I have much improved it. In- 
stead of " sodger ! hero ! " I will have it 
" Caledonian ! on wi' me !" 

I have scrutinized it, Over and over ; and to 
the world some way or other it shall go as 
it is. At the same time it will not in the leasl 
hurt me, should you leave it out altogether 



214 



BURNS' WORKS. 



and adhere to your first intention of adopting 
Logan's verses. * 

I have finished my song to " Saw ye mjr 
father;" and in English, as you will see. 
That there is a syllable too much for the ex- 
pression of the air, is true ; but allow me to 
say, that the mere dividing of a dotted crotchet 
into a crotchet and a quaver, is not a great 
matter : however, in that, I have no pretension 
to cope in judgment with you. Of the poetry 
I speak with confidence ; but the music is a 
business where I hint my ideas with the ut- 
most diffidence. 

The old verses have merit, though unequal, 
and are popular ; my advice is to set the air to 
the old words, and let mine follow as English 



FAIR JENNY. 

Tune—" Saw ye my father." 
Where are the joys I hae met in the morning, 
That danced to the lark's early song ? 



(if it _, 

He has attached it to the air of Lewie Gordon, and per- 
haps among the existing- airs he could not find a better ; 
but the poetry is suited to a much higher strain of mu- 
sic, andmayemploy the genius of some Scottish Handel, 
if any such should in future arise. The reader will 
have observed, that Burns adopted the alterations pro- 
posed by his friend and correspondent in former in- 
stances with great readiness ; perhaps, indeed, on all 
indifferent occasions. In the present instance, however, 
he rejected them, though repeatedly urged, with deter- 
mined resolution. With every respect for the judg- 
ment of Mr Thomson and his friends, we may be satis- 
tied that he did so. He who in preparing for an engage- 
ment attempts to withdraw his imagination from im- 
ages of death, will probably have but imperfect success, 
and is not fitted to stand in the ranks of battle, where 
tlie liberties of a kingdom are at issue. Of such men 
the conquerors at Bannockburn were not composed. 
Brace's troops were inured to war, and familiar with 
all its sufferings and dangers. On the eve of that me- 
morable day, their spirits were without doubt wound up 
to a pitch of enthusiasm suited to the occasion ; a pitch 
of enthusiasm at which danger becomes attractive, and 
the most terrific forms of death are no longer terrible. 
Such a strain of sentiment this heroic " welcome" may 
he supposed well calculated to elevate — to raise their 
hearts high above fear, and to nerve their arms to the 
utmost pitch of mortal exertion. These observations 
might be illustrated and supported, by a reference to 
the martial poetry of all nations, from the spirit-stirring 
Btrains of Tyrteus, to the war-song of General Wolfe. 
Mr Thomson's observation, that " Welcome to your 
gory bed, is a discouraging address" seems not sufficient- 
ly considered. Perhaps, indeed, it may be admitted, 
that the term gory is somewhat objectionable, not on 
account of its. presenting a fr ghtful but a disagreeable 
image to the mind. But a great poet uttering his con- 
ceptions on an inter, -siiiigoi va-i'm, seeks always to pre- 
sent a picture that is vivid, and is uniformly disposed to 
sacrifice the delicacies of taste on the altar of the imagi- 
uation. And it is the privilege of superior genius, by 
producing a new association, to elevate expressions 
that were originally low, and thus to triumph over the 
deficiencies of language. In how many instances 
might this be exemplified from the works of our immor- 
tal Shakspeare. 

" Who would fardels bear, 
" To groan and svent under a weary life, 
". }X h ? n '\ e himself might hio quietus make 



' With a. bare bndkin.'' 
•e easy to enlarge, but t' 



ingest such reflections 



Where is the peace that awaited my wandering, 
At evening the wild woods among? 

No more a-winding the course of yon river, 
And marking sweet flow'rets so fair; 

No more I trace the light footsteps of pleasure, 
But sorrow and sad- sighing care. 

Is it that summer's forsaken our valleys, 

And grim surly winter is near ? 
No, no, the bees humming round the gay roses, 

Proclaim it the pride of the year. 

Fain would I hide what I fear to discover, 
Yet long, long too well have I known : 

All that has caused this wreck in my bosom, 
Is Jenny, fair Jenny alone. 

Time cannot aid me, my griefs are immortal, 
Nor Hope dare a comfort bestow : 

Come then, enamour'd and fond of my anguish, 
Enjoyment I'll seek in my woe. 

Adieu, my dear sir ! The post goes, so I 
shall defer some other remarks until more lei- 



Ma BURNS to Ma THOMSON 

September, 1793. 
I have been turning over some volumes of 
songs, to find verses whose measures would 
suit the airs for which you have allotted me to 
find English songs. 

For Muirland Willie you have, in Ramsay's 
Tea-table, an excellent song, beginning " Ah, 
why those tears in Nelly's eyes ?" As fo: 
" The Collier's Dochter," take the following 
old Bacchanal. 



Deluded swain, the pleasure 

The fickle fair can give thee, 
Is but a fairy treasure, 

Thy hopes will soon deceive thee. 

The billows on the ocean, 

The breezes idly roaming, 
The cloud's uncertain motion, 

They are but types of woman. 

O ! art thou not ashamed, 

To doat upon a feature ? 
If man thou wouldest be named, 

Despise the silly creature. 

Go, find an honest fellow; 

Good claret set before thee . 
Hold on till thou art mellow, 

And then to bed in glory. 

The faulty line in Logan-water, 1 mend thus : 



CORRFSPONDENCE. 



" How can your fliufy hearts enjoy 

" The widow's tears, the orphan's cry?" 

The song, otherwise, will pass. As to M'- 
Gregoira Rua-Rulh, you will see a song of 
mine to it, with a set of the air superior to 
yours, in the Museum, Vol. ii. p. 181. The 
song begins, 



'■ Ita 



ivinds around her blowing."* 



Your Irish airs are pretty, but they are 
downright Irish. If they were like the Banks 
of Banna, for instance, though really Irish, yet, 
in the Scottish taste, you might adopt them. 
Since you are so fond of Irish music, what say 
you to twenty-five of them in an additional 
number : We could easily find this quantity of 
charming airs ; I will take care that you shall 
not want songs ; and I assure you that you 
would find it the most saleable of the whole. 
If you do not approve of Roy's wife, for the 
music's sake, we shall not insert it. Dcil lak' 
the wars is a charming song ; so is Saw ye my 
Peggy. There's nae luck about the house, well 
deserves a place ; I cannot say that O'er the 
hills and far aiva strikes me as equal to your 
selection. This is no my ain house is a great 
favourite air of mine ; and if you will send me 
your set of it, I will task my muse to her high- 
est effort. "Tint is your opinion of I hae laid 
a herrin in sawt f ± like it much. Your Jaco- 
bite airs are pretty ; and there are many others 
of the same kind pretty — but you have not 
room for them. You cannot, I think, insert 
Fye let us a' to the bridal to any other words 
than its own. 

What pleases me, as simple and naive, dis- 
gusts you as ludicrous and low. For this rea- 
son, Fye, gie vu. my coggie, sirs — Fye let us a' 
to the bridal, with several others of that cast, 
are, to me, highly pleasing; while, Saw ye my 
Father, or saw ye my Mother, delights me with 
its descriptive simple pathos. Thus, my song, 
Ken ye what Meg o' the mill has gotten ? pleases 
myself so much, that I cannot try my hand at 
another song to the air; so I shall not attempt 
it. I know you will laugh at all this j but, 
" ilka man wears his belt his ain gait." 



No. XLVII. 

Mr BURNS to Ma THOMSON. 

October, 1793. 
Your last letter, my dear Thomson, was in- 
deed laden with heavy news. Alas, .poor Ers. 
sine !f The recollection that he was a coad- 
jutor in your publication, has, till now, scared 



• This will be found in the latter part of this volume. 

tThe Honourable A. Erskine, brother to Lord Kel- 
v, whose melancholy death Mr Thomson had commu- 
ncatert in an excellent letter, which he has suppress. 



me from writing to you, or turning in) thoughts 
on composing for you. 

I am pleased that you are reconciled to the 
air of the Quuher's Wife, though, by the bye, 
an old Highland gentleman, and a deep anti- 
quarian, tells me it is a Gaelic air, and known 
by the name of Leiger 'm choss. The follow- 
ing verses I hope will please you, as an Eng- 
lish song to the air. 

Thine am I, my faithful fair, 

Thine, my lovely Nancy ; 
Ev'ry pulse along my veins, 

Ev'ry roving fancy. 

To thy bosom lay my heart, 
There to throb and languish ; 

Tho' despair had wrung its core, 
That would heal its anguish. 

Take away these rosy lips, 

Rich with balmy treasure •. 
Turn away thine eyes of love, 

Lest I die with pleasure. 

What is life when wanting love ? 

Night without a morning : 
Love's the cloudless summer sun, 

Nature gay adorning. 



Your objection to the English song I pro 
posed for John Anderson my jo, is certainly 
just. The following is by an old acquaintance 
of mine, and I think has merit. The song 
was never in print, which I think is so much 
in your favour. The more original good poe- 
try your collection contains, it certainly has so 
much the more merit. 

SONG, 

BY GAVIN TURNBULL. 

condescend, dear, charming maid, 
My wretched state to view ; 

A tender swain to love betray'd, 
And sad despair, by you. 

While here, all melancholy, 

My passion I deplore, 
Yet, urg'd by stern resistless fate, 

I love thee more and more. 

1 heard of love, and with disdain, 

The urchin's power denied ; 
I laugh'd at every lover's pain, 

And mock'd them when they sigh'd : 

But how my state is alter'd ! 

Those happy days are o'er ; 
For all thy unrelenting hate, 

I love thee more and more. 

O yield, illustrious beauty, yield. 
No longer let me mourn ; 



216 

And tho' victorious in the field, 
Thy captive do not scorn. 

Let generous pity warm thee, 
My wonted peace restore ; 

And grateful, I shall bless thee still, 
And love thee more and more. 



BURNS' WORKS. 



The following address of TurnbuH to the 
nightingale will suit, as an English song, to the 
air There was a lass and she was fair. — By the 
bye, Turnbull has a great many songs in MS. 
which I can command, if you like his manner. 
Possibly, as he is an old friend of mine, I may 
be prejudiced in his favour ; but I like some 
of his pieces very much. 



THE NIGHTINGALE. 

BY G. TURNBULL. 

Thou sweetest minstrel of the grove, 
That ever tried the plaintive strain, 

A. wake thy tender tale of love, 
And soothe a poor forsaken swain. 

For tho' the muses deign to aid, 

And teach him smoothly to complain ; 

Yet Delia, charming, cruel maid, 
Is deaf to her forsaken swain. 

All day, with Fashion's gaudy sons, 
In sport she wanders o'er the plain; 

Their tales approves, and still she shuns 
The notes of her forsaken swain. 

When evening shades obscure the sky, 
And bring the solemn hours again, 

Begin, sweet bird, thy melody, 

And soothe a poor forsaken swain. 



I shall just transcribe another of Turnbull's, 
which would go charmingly to Lewie Gordon. 



BY G. TURNBULL. 

Let me wander where I will, 
By shady wood, or winding rill ; 
Where the sweetest May -born flowers 
Paint the meadows, deck the bowers ; 
Where the linnet's early song 
Echoes sweet the woods among : 
Let me wander where I will, 
Laura haunts my fancy still. 



If at rosy dawn I choose 
To indulge the smiling muse, 
If I court some cool retreat, 
To avoid the noon-tide heat ; 
If beneath the moon's pale ray, 
Thro' unfrequented wilds I stray : 
Let me wander where I will, 
Laura haunts my fancy still. 

When at night the drowsy god 
Waves his sleep-compelling rod, 
And to Fancy's wakeful eyes 
Bids celestial visions rise ; 
While with boundless joy I rove 
Thro' the fairy land of love : 
Let me wander where I will, 
Laura haunts my fancy still. 



The rest of your letter I shall answer at somt 
other opportunity. 



No. XL VIII. 

Mr THOMSON** Mr BURNS. 

Mr Dear Sir, 7th Nov. 1793. 

After so long a silence, it gave me peculiar 
pleasure to recognise your well-known hand. 
for I had begun to be apprehensive that a 
was not well with you. I am happy to find, 
however, that your silence did not proceed from 
that cause, and that you have got among the 
ballads once more. 

I have to thank you for your English song to 
ledger 'm choss, which I think extremely good, 
although the colouring is warm. Your friend 
Mr Turnbull's songs have doubtless consider- 
able merit : and as you have the command of 
his manuscripts, I hope you may find out some 
that will answer as English songs to the airs 
yet unprovided. 



No. XLIX. 

Mr BURNS to Mr THOMSON. 

December, 1793. 
Tell me how you like the following verses to 
the tune of Jo Janet. 

Husband, husband cease your strife, 

Nor longer idly rave, sir ; 
Tho' I am your wedded wife, 

Yet I am not your slave, sir. 

" One of two must still obey, 

Nancy, Nancy, 
Is it man or woman, say, 

My spouse Nancy ?' ' 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



2T7 



If tis still trie lordly word, 

Service and obedience ; 
111 desert my sovereign lord, 

And so good bye allegiance ! 

" Sad will I be so bereft, 

Nancy, Nancy : 
Yet I'll try to make a shift, 

My spouse Nancy.'' 

My poor heart then break it must, 
My last hour I'm near it : 

When you lay me in the dust, 

Think, think how you will bear it. 

" I will hope and trust in heaven, 

Nancy, Nancy; 
Strength to bear it will be given, 

My spouse Nancy." 

Well, sir, from the silent dead, 
Still I'll try to daunt you ; 

Ever round your midnight bed 
Horrid sprites shall haunt you. 

" I'll wed another like my dear, 

Nancy, Nancy ; 
Then all hell will fly for fear, 

My spouse ^nticy. 

Air—" The Sutor's Doohter." 

Wilt thou be my dearie : 

When sorrow wrings thy gentle heart, 

Wilt thou let me cheer thee : 

By the treasure of my soul, 

That's the love I bear thee ! 

I swear and vow that only thou 

Shall ever be my dearie. 

Only thou, I swear and vow, 

Shall ever be my dearie. 

Lassie, say thou lo'es me ; 
Or if thou wilt na be my ain, 
Say na thou'lt. refuse me : 
If it winna, canna be, 
Thou for thine may choose me, 
Let me, lassie, quickly die, 
Trusting that thou lo'es me ; 
Lassie let me quickly die, 
Trusting that thou lo'es me. 



No. L. 

Mr THOMSON to Mr BURNS. 

My Dear Sir, Edinburgh, 7th April, 1794. 
Owing to the distress of our friend for the 
loss of his child, at the time of his receiving 
your admirable but melancholy letter, I had 
not an opportunity 'till lately of perusing it. * 
How sorry am I to find Burns saying, " Canst 



i lelter to Mr Ctinninsrha 



, 31, 



thou not minister to a mind diseased ?" while 
he is delighting others from one end of the 
island to the other. Like the hypochondriac 
who went to consult a physician upon his 
case : Go, says the doctor, and see the famous 
Carlini, who keeps all Paris in good hu- 
mour. Alas ! sir, replied the patient, I am 
that unhappy Carlini ! 

Your plan for our meeting together pleases 
me greatly, and I trust that by some means or 
other it will soon take place; but your Bac- 
chanalian challenge almost frightens me, for 1 
am a miserable weak drinker ! 

Allan is much gratified by the good opinion 
of his talents. He has just begun a sketch 
from your Cotter's Saturday Night, and if it 
pleases himself in the design, he will probably 
etch or engrave it. In subjects of the pastor- 
al or humorous kind, he is perhaps unrivalled 
by any artist living. He fails a little in giving 
beauty and grace to his females, and his colour- 
ing is sombre, otherwise his paintings and draw- 
ings would be in greater request. 

I like the music of the " Sutor's Dochter," 
and will consider whether it shall be added to 
the last volume ; your verses to it are pretty ; 
but your humorous English to suit " Jo Janet'' 
is inimitable. What think you of the air, " With- 
in a mile of Edinburgh?'' It has always 
struck me as a modern English imitation ; but 
is said to be Oswald's, and is so much liked, 
that I believe I must include it. The verses 
are little better than " namby pamby." Do 
you consider it worth a stanza or two ? 



No. LI. 
Mb BURNS to Mr THOMSON. 

My Dear Sir, May, 1794.. 

I return you the plates, with which I am high- 
ly pleased ; I would humbly propose, instead 
of the younker knitting stockings, to put a 
stock and horn into his hands. A friend of 
mine, who is positively the ablest judge on the 
subject I have ever met with, and though an 
unknown, is yet a superior artist with the 
Burin is quite charmed with Allan's man- 
ner : I got him a peep of the Gentle Shepherd, 
and he pronounces Allan a most original art- 
ist of great excellence. 

For my part, I look on Mr Allan's choosing 
my favourite poem for his subject, to be one 
of the highest compliments I have ever re- 
ceived. 

I am quite vexed at Pleyel's being coop- 
ed up in France, as it will put an entire 
stop to our work. Now, and for six or seven 
months, " I shall be quite in song," as you shall 
see by and bye. I got an air, pretty enough, 
composed by Lady Elizabeth Heron of Heron, 
which she calls "The banks of Cree." Cree 
is a beautiful romantic stream; and as hei 
ladyship is a particular friend of mine, I have 
written the following song to it. 



213 



BURNS' WORKS. 



BANKS OF CREE. 

Here is the glen, and here the bower, 
All underneath the birchen shade ; 

The village-bell has told the hour, — 
O what can stay my lovely maid. 

Tis not Maria's whispering call ; 

'Tis but the balmy- breathing gale, 
Mixt with some warbler's dying fall 
The dewy star of eve to hail. 

It is Maria's voice I hear ! 

So calls the woodlark in the grove, 
His little, faithful mate to cheer ; 

Ar once 'tis music — and 'tis love. 

And art thou come ! and art thou true ! 

O welcome dear to love and me ! 
And let us all our vows renew, 

Along the flowery banks of Cree. 



Mr BURNS to Mr THOMSON. 

July, 1794. 
Is there no news yet of Pleyel ? Or is your 
work to be at a dead stop, until the allies set 
our Modern Orpheus at liberty from the 
savage thraldom of democratic discords? Alas 
the day ! And woe's me ! That auspicious 
period, pregnant with the happiness of mil- 
lions.* — 

I have presented a copy of your songs to the 
daughter of a much-valued, and much-honoured 
friend of mine, Mr Graham of Fintry. I wrote, 
on the blank side of the title page, the follow- 
ing address to the young lady. 

Here, where the Scottish muse immortal 
lives, 

In sacred strains and tuneful numbers join'd, 
Accept the gift ; though humble he who gives, 

Rich is the tribute of the grateful mind. 

So may no ruffian -j- feeling in thy breast, 
Discordant jar thy bosom-chords among ; 

But peace attune thy gentle soul to rest, 
Or love ecstatic wake his seraph song. 

Or pity's notes, in luxury of tears, 
As modest want the tale of woe reveals ; 

While conscious virtue all the strain endears, 
And heaven-born piety her sanction seals, 

* A portion of this letter has been left out. for rea- 
sons that will easily be imagined. 

f It were to have been wished that instead of ruffian I 
feeling, the bard had used a less rugged epithet, e. g. 



Mr THOMSON to Mr BURNS. 

My Dear Sir, Edinburgh, 10th Aug., 1794. 
I owe you an apology for having so long de- 
layed to acknowledge the favour of your last. 
I fear it will be as you say. I shall have no 
more songs from Pleyel till France and we 
are friends ; but, nevertheless, I am very de- 
sirous to be prepared with the poetry, and as 
the season approaches in which your muse of 
Coila visits you, I trust I shall, as formerly, be 
frequently gratified with the result of your 
amorous and tender interviews ! 



No. LIV. 

Mr BURNS to Mr THOMSON. 

SOth August, 1794. 
The last evening, as I was straying out and 
thinking of " O'er the hills and far awa," 1 
spun the following stanza for it ; but whether 
my spinning will deserve to be laid up in store 
like the precious thread of the silk-worm, or 
brushed to the devil like the vile manufacturei 
of the spider, I leave, my dear sir, to your 
usual candid criticism. I was pleased with 
several lines in it at first ; but I own, that now, 
it appears rather a flimsy business. 

This is just a hasty sketch, until I see 
whether it be worth a critique. We have many 
sailor songs ; but, as far as I at present recol- 
lect, they are mostly the effusions of the 
jovial sailor, not the wailings of his lovelorr 
mistress. I must here make one sweet ex- 
ception — " Sweet Annie frae the Sea beach 
came." Now for the song. 

ON THE SEAS AND FAR AWAY. 

Tune— "O'er the Hills," ftc. 

How can my poor heart be glad, 
When absent from my sailor lad ; 
How can I the thought forego, 
He's on the seas to meet the foe ; 
Let me wander, let me rove, 
Still my heart is with my love ; 
Nightly dreams and thoughts by day 
Are with him that's far away, 



On the seas and far away 
On stormy seas and far away 
Nightly dreams and thoughts by d 
Are aye with him that's far away. 



iWhen in summer's noon I faint 
As weary flocks around me pant. 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



219 



Haply in this scorching sun 
My sailor's thundering at his gun : 
Bullets spare my only joy ! 
Bullets, spare my darling boy ! 
Fate do with me what you may, 
Spare but him that's far away ! 
On the seas, &c 

At the starless midnight hour, 
When winter rules with boundless power ; 
As the storms the forest tear, 
And thunders rend the howling air, 
Listening to the doubling roar, 
Surging on the rocky shore, 
All I can — I weep and pray, 
For his weal that's far away. 
On the seas, &c. 

Peace, thy olive wand extend, 
And bid wild war his ravage end 
Man with brother man to meet, 
And as a brother kindly greet : 
Then may heaven, with prosp'rous gales, 
Fill my sailor's welcome sails, 
To my arms their charge convey, 
My dear lad that's far away, 
On the seas, &c. 



I give you leave to abuse this song, but do 
it in the spirit of Christian meekness. 



Mr THOMSON to Mr BURNS. 

My Dear Sir, Edinburgh, 16th Sept. 1794. 
You have anticipated my opinion of " On the 
seas and far away ;" I do not think it one of 

four very happy productions, though it certain. 
y contains stanzas that are worthy of all ac- 
ceptation. 

The second is the least to my liking, parti- 
cularly, " Bullets, spare my only joy." Con- 
found the bullets. It might perhaps be ob- 
jected to the third verse, " At the starless 
midnight hour," that it has too much grandeur 
of imagery, and that greater simplicity of thought 
would have better suited the character of a 
sailor's sweetheart. The tune, it must be re- 
membered, is of the brisk cheerful kind. Upon 
the whole, therefore, in my humble opinion, 
the song would be better adapted to the tune, 
if it consisted only of the first and last verses, 
with the choruses. 



No. LVL 

Mr BURNS to Mr THOMSON. 

September, 1794 
I shall withdraw my " On the seas and far 
away" altogether ; it is unequal, and unworthy 
of the work. Making a poem is like begetting 
a son ; you cannot know whether you have a 
wise man or a fool, until you produce him to 
the world and try him. 

For that reason I send you the offspring A 
my brain, abortions and all ; and as such, pray 
look over them and forgive them, and burn 
them.* I am flattered at your adopting " Ca 1 
the yewes to the knowes," as it was owing to 
me that it ever saw the light. About seven 
years ago I was well acquainted with a wo. thy 
little fellow of a clergyman, a Mr Clunzie, 
who sung it charmingly ; and, at my request, 
Mr Clarke took if" down from his singing 
When I gave it to Johnson, I added some 
stanzas to the song, and mended others, but 
still it will not do for you. In a solitary stroll 
which I took to-day, I tried my hand on a 
few pastoral lines, following up the idea of the 
chorus, which I would preserve. Here it is, 
with all its crudities and imperfections on its 
head. 

CHORUS. 

Ca' the yewes to the knowes, 
Ca' them whare the heather grows, 
Ca' them whare the burnie rows, 
Mybonnie dearie. 

Hark tne mavis' evening sang 
Sounding Clouden's woods amang f 
Then a-faulding let us gang, 
My bonnie dearie 
Ca' the, &c. 

We'll gae down by Clouden side, 
Thro' the hazels spreading wide, 
O'er the waves, that sweetly glide 
To the moon sae dearly. 
Ca' the, &c 

Yonder Clouden's silent towers, 
Where at moonshine midnight hours. 
O'er the dewy bending flowers 
Fairies dance sue cheery. 
Ca' the, &C. 

Ghaist nor bogle shalt thou fear : 
Thou'rt to love and heaven sae deai 
Nocht of ill may come thee near, 
My bonnie dearie. 
Ca' the, &c. 



Doctors differ. The objection to the second stanza 
loes not strike the Editor. 
♦The river Clouden, a tributary stream to tl 



220 

Fair and lovely as thou art, 
Thou hast stown my very heart; 
I can die — but canna part, 
My bonnie dearie. 
Ca' the, &c. 

I shall give you my opinion of your other 
newly adopted songs, my first scribbling fit. 



Mb BUPNS to Mb THOMSON. 

September, 1794. 
Do you know a blackguard Irish song, called 
OnagKs Water-fall? The air is charming, 
and I have often regretted the want of decent 
verses to it. It is too much, at least for my 
humble rustic muse, to expect that every effort 
of hers shall have merit . still I think that it 
is better to have mediocre verses to a favourite 
air, than none at all. On this principle I have 
all along proceeded in the Scots Musical Mu- 
seum, and as that publication is at its last vo- 
lume, I intend the following song, to the air 
above mentioned, for that work. 

If it does not suit you as an editor, you may 
be pleased to have verses to it that you can 
sing before ladies. 

SHE SAYS SHE LO'ES ME BEST 
OF A'. 

Tune— " Onagh's Water-fall. : ' 
Sae flaxen were her ringlets, 

Her eyebrows of a darker hue, 
Bewitchingly o'er-arching 
. Twa laughing een o' bonnie blue. 
Her smiling sae wyling, 

Wad make a wretch forget his woe ; 
What pleasure, what treasure, 

Unto these rosy lips to grow ; 
Such was my Chloris' bonnie face, 

When first her bonnie face I saw, 
And aye my Chloris' dearest charm, 

She says she lo'es me best of a'. 

Like harmony her motion : 

Her pretty ancle is a spy 
Betraying fair proportion, 

Wad make a saint forget the sky. 
Sae warming, sae charming, 

Her faultless form and graceful air ; 
Hk feature — auld Nature 

Declar'd that she could do nae mair : 
Hers are the willing chains o' love, 

By conquering beauty's sovereign law ; 
And aye my Chloris' dearest charm, 

She says she lo'es me best of a'. 

Let others love the city, 

And gaudy show at sunny noon ; 
Gie me the lonely valley, 

The (lewv five, and rising moon. 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Fair beaming and streaming, 

Her silver light the boughs amang ; 
While falling, recalling, 

The amorous thrush concludes his sang 
There dearest Chloris, wilt thou rove 

By wimpling burn and leafy shaw, 
And hear my vows o' truth and love, 

And say thou lo'es me best of a'. 



Not to compare small things with great, my 
taste in music is like the mighty Frederick of 
Prussia's taste in painting: we are told that 
he frequently admired what the connoisseurs 
decried, and always without any hypocrisy 
confessed his admiration. I am sensible that 
my taste in music must be inelegant and vul- 
gar, because people of undisputed and culti- 
vated taste can find no merit in my favourite 
tunes. Still, because I am cheaply pleased, 
is that any reason why I should deny myself 
that pleasure ? Many of our strathspeys, an- 
cient and modern, give me the most exquisite 
enjoyment, where you and other judges would 
probably be showing disgust. For instance, I 
am just now making verses for " Rothiemurche's 
Rant," an air which puts me in raptures ; and 
in fact, unless I be pleased with the tune, I 
never can make verses to it. Here I have 
Clarke on my side, who is a judge that I will 
pit against any of you. " Rothiemurche," he 
says," is an air both original and beautiful ;'' and 
on his recommendation I have taken the first 
part of the tune for a chorus, and the fourth or 
last part for the song. I am but two stanzas 
deep in the work, and possibly you may think, 
and justly, that the poetry is as little worth 
your attention as the music* 

I have begun, anew, "Let me in this ae 
night." Do you think that we ought to retain 
the old chorus ? I think we must retain both 
the old chorus and the first stanza of the old 
song. I do not altogether like the third line of 
the first stanza, but cannot alter it to please 
myself. I am just three stanzas deep in it. 
Would you have the " denouement" to be suc- 
cessful or otherwise ; — should she " let him in" 
or not. 

Did you not once propose " The Sow's tail 
to Geordie," as an air for your work ; I am 
quite delighted with it ; but I acknowledge 
that is no mark of its real excellence. I oner 
set about verses for it, which I meant to be i? 
the alternate way of a lover and his mistress 
chanting together. I have not the pleasure a 
knowing Mrs Thomson's Christian name, ant 
yours, I am afraid, is rather burlesque for senti- 
ment, else I had meant to have made you the 
hero and heroine of the little piece. 

How do you like the following epigram, 
which I wrote the other day on a lovely young 
girl's recovery from a fever ? Doctor Maxwell 



)g, " Lass 



.' the lint-white lucks ;" 



II be found at full length afterwards. 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



221 



was the physician wbo seemingly saved her 
fromthe grave, and to him I address the follow- 
ing: 

TO DR MAXWELL, 

ON MISS JESSY STAIG'S SECOVEEY. 

Maxwell, if merit here you crave, 

That merit I deny : 
You save fair Jessy from the grave ! 

An angel could not die ! 

God grant you patience with this stupid 
epistle ! 



No. LVIII 

Mb THOMSON to Mb BURNS. 

I perceive the sprightly muse is now attend- 
ant upon her favourite poet, whose "wood- 
notes wild" are become as enchanting as ever. 
" She says she lo'es me best of a'," is one of 
the pleasantest table songs I have seen, and 
henceforth shall be mine when the song is go- 
ing round. I'll give Cunningham a copy, he 
can more powerfully proclaim its merit. I am 
far from undervaluing your taste for the strath- 
spey music ; on the contrary, I think it highly 
animating and agreeable, and that some of the 
strathspeys, when graced with such verses as 
yours, will make very pleasing songs, in the 
same way that rough Christians are tempered 
and softened by lovely woman, without whom, 
you know, they had been brutes. 

I am clear for having the " Sow's tail," par- 
ticularly as your proposed verses to it are so ex- 
tremely promising. Geordie, as you observe, 
is a name only fit for burlesque composition. 
Mrs Thomson's name (Katharine) is not at 
all poetical. Retain Jeanie, therefore, and 
make the other Jamie, or any other that sounds 
agreeably. 

Your " Ca' the yewes," is a precious little 
morceau. Indeed I am perfectly astonished 
and charmed with the endless variety of your 
fancy. Here let me ask you, whether you 
never seriously turned your thoughts upon 
dramatic writing. That is a field worthy of 
your genius, in which it might shine forth in 
all its splendour. One or two successful pieces 
upon the London stage would make your for- 
tune. The rage at present is for musical 
dramas ; few or none of those which have ap- 
peared since the " Duenna," possess much poet- 
ical merit : there is little in the conduct of 
the fable, or in the dialogue, to interest the 
audience. They are chiefly vehicles for music 
and pageantry. 1 think you might produce a 
comic opera in three acts, which would live by 
the poetry, at the same time that it would be 
proper to take ever} assistance from her tune - 
ful sister. Part of the songs of course would 



be to our favourite Scottish airs ; the rest might 
be left with the London composer— Storace 
for Drury Lane, or Shield for Covent garden ; 
both of them very able and popular musicians. 
I believe that interest and manoeuvring are 
often necessary to have a drama brought on : 
so it may be with the namby paniby tribe of 
flowery scribblers ; but were you to address 
Mr Sheridan himself by letter, and send him a 
dramatic piece, I am persuaded he would, for 
the honour of genius, give it a fair and candid 
trial. Excuse me for obtruding these hints 
upon your consideration.* 



No. LIX. 

Ma THOMSON to Ma BURNS. 

Edinburgh, 14th October, 1794. 
The last eight days have been devoted to the 
re-examination of the Scottish collections. I 
have read, and sung, and fiddled, and consider- 
ed, till I am half blind and wholly stupid. The 
few airs I have added, are enclosed. 

Peter Pindar has at length sent me all the songs 
I expected from him, which are in general ele- 
gant and beautiful. Have you heard of a Lon- 
don collection of Scottish airs and songs, just 
published by Mr Ritson, an Englishman. I 
shall send you a copy. His introductory essay 
on the subject is curious, and evinces great 
reading and research, but does not decide the 
question as to the origin of our melodies; 
though he shows clearly that Mr Tytler, in his 
ingenious dissertation, has adduced no sort of 
proof of the hypothesis he wished to establish ; 
and that his classification of the airs, according 
to the eras when they were composed, is mere 
fancy and conjecture. On John Pinkerton, 
Esq. he has no mercy ; but consigns hirn to 
damnation ! He snarls at my publication, on the 
score of Pindar being engaged to write songs 
for it ; uncandidly and unjustly leaving it to be 
inferred, that the songs of Scottish writers had 
been sent a-packing to make room for Peter's ! 
Of you he speaks with some respect, but gives 
you a passing hit or two, for daring to dress up 
a little some old foolish songs for the Museum. 
His sets of the Scottish airs are taken, he says, 
from the oldest collections and best author- 
ities : many of them, however, have such a 
strange aspect, and are so unlike the sets which 
are sung by every person of taste, old or young, 
in town or country, that we can scarcely recog- 
nise the features of our favourites. By going to 
the oldest collections of our music, it does not 
follow that we find the melodies in their ori- 
ginal state. These melodies had been preserved, 
we know not how long, by oral communication, 
before being collected and printed : and as dif- 
ferent persons sang the same air very differently, 

* Our bard had before received the same advice, and 
certainly took it so far into consideration, as \o have 
oast about for a subject- 



222 



BURNS' WORKS. 



according to their accurate or confused recol- 
lection of it, so even supposing the first collec- 
tors to have possessed the industry, the taste and 
discernment to choose the best they could hear, 
(which is far from certain,) still it must evi- 
dently be a chance, whether the collections exhi- 
bit any of the melodies in the state they were 
first composed. In selecting the melodies for 
my own collection, I have been as much guided 
by the living as by the dead. Where these dif- 
fered, I preferred the sets that appeared to me 
the most simple and beautiful, and the most 
generally approved ; and, without meaning any 
compliment to my own capability of choosing, 
or speaking of the pains I have taken, I flatter 
myself that my sets will be found equally freed 
from vulgar errors on the one hand, and affected 
graces on the other. 



Mr BURNS to Mr THOMSON. 

Mv Dear Friend, 19th October, 1794. 
By this morning's post I have your list, and> 
in general, I highly approve of it. I shall, at 
more leisure, give you a critique on the whole. 
Clarke goes to your town by to-day's fly, and 
I wish you would call on him and take his 
opinion in general : you know his taste is a 
standard He will return here again in a week 
or two, so, please do not miss asking for him. 
One thing I hope he will do, persuade you to 
adopt my favourite, " Craigie-burn wood," in 
your selection : It is as great a favourite of his 
as of mine. The lady on whom it was made is 
one of the finest women in Scotland : and, in 
fact, (entre nous) is in a manner to me what 
Sterne's Eliza was to him — a mistress, a friend, 
or what you will, in the guileless simplicity of 
Platonic love. (Now don't put any of your 
squinting constructions on this, or have any 
clishmaclaiver about it among our acquaint- 
ances.) I assure you that to my lovely friend 
yon are indebted for many of your best songs 
of mine. Do you think that the sober, gin- 
horse routine of existence, could inspire a man 
with life, and love, and joy — could fire him 
with enthusiasm, or melt him with pathos, 
equal to the genius of your book — No ! no • — 
Whenever I want to be more than ordinary 
in song ; to be in some degree equal to your 
diviner airs — do you imagine I fast and pray 
for the divine emanation ? Tout au contraire ! 
I have a glorious recipe ; the very one that for 
his own use was invented by the divinity of 
healing and poetry, when first he piped to the 
flocks of Admetus. I put myself in a regimen 
of admiring a fine woman ; in proportion to the 
adorability of her charms, in proportion you 
are delighted with my verses. The lightning 
of her eye is the godhead of Parnassus, and the 
witchery of her smile, the divinity of Helicon ! 

To descend to business ; if you like my idea 



of " When she cam ben she bobbet," the fol- 
lowing stanzas of mine, altered a little from 
what they were formerly when set to anothei 
air, may perhaps do instead of worse stanzas. 

SAW YE MY PHELY. 

( Quasi dicat Phillis.) 

Tune—" When she came ben she bobbet." 

O saw ye my dear, my Phely? 
O saw ye my dear, my Phely ? 
She's down i' the grove, she's wi' a new love. 
She winna come hame to her Willie. 

What says she, my dearest, my Phely ? 
What says she, my dearest, my Phely ? 
She lets thee to wit that she has thee forgot, 
And for ever disowns thee her Willie. 

O had I ne'er seen thee my Phely ? 
O had I ne'er seen thee my Phely ? 
As light as the air, and fause as thou's fair, 
Thou's broken the heart o' thy Willie. 



Now for a few miscellaneous remarks. The 
Posie •' (in the Museum), is my composition • 
the air was taken down from Mrs Burns 
voice.* It is well know in the West Coun- 
try, but the old words are trash. By the bye, 
take a look at the tune again, and tell me if you 
do not think it is the original from which 
"Roslin Castle" is composed. The second 
part, in particular, for the first two or three 
bars, is exactly the old air. " Strathallan's 
Lament" is mine; the music is by our 
right-trusty and deservedly well-beloved, Al- 
lan Masterton. " Donocht-head," is not 
mine : I would give ten pounds it were. 
It appeared first in the Edinburgh Herald ; 
and came to the Editor of that paper with the 
Newcastle post-mark on it.t " Whistle o'er 



* The Posie will be found afterwards. This and the 
other poems of which lie speaks, had appeared in Jolin. 
son's Museum, and Mr T. had inquired whether they 

+ The reader will be curious to see this poem 6o 
highly praised bj Burns. Here it is :— 

Kisen blaws the winfl o'er Donocht-head,* 

The snaw drives snelly thro' the dal", 
The Gaberlunzie tirls my sneck, 

And shivering, tells his waefu' talp. 
" Cauld is the night, O let me in, 

Aud dinna let your minstrel la', 
And dinna let his winding sheet 

Be naething but a wreath o' snaw. 

' Full ninety winters hae I seen, 

And pip'd whar gor-cocks whirring flew 
And mony a day I've dane'd, I ween, 

To lifts which from my drone I blew." 
My Eppie wak'd, and soon she cry'd, 

Get up, Guidman, and let him in j 
For weel ye ken the winter night 

Was short when he began his din'. 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



22S 



the lave o'l i> mine ; the music said to be by a 
John Bruce, a celebrated violin player in Dum- 
fries, about the beginning of this century. 
This I know, Bruce, who was an honest man, 
though a red-wud Highlandman, constantly 
claimed it ; and by all the old musical people 
here is believed to be the autnor of it, 

Andrew and his cutty gun. The song to 
which this is set in the Museum, is mine; 
and was composed on Miss Euphemia Murray, 
of Lintrose, commonly and deservedly called, 
the Flower of Strathmore. 

How lang and dreary is the night. I met 
with some such words in a collection of songs 
somewhere, which I altered and enlarged ; and 
to please you and to suit your favourite air, 
I have taken a stride or two across my room, 
and have arranged it anew, as you will find on 
the other page. 

Tune—" Cauld kail in Aberdeen." 

How lang and dreary is the night, 

When I am frae my dearie ; 
I restless lie frae e'en to morn, 

Though I were ne'er sae weary. 



For oh, her lanely nights are lang ; 

And oh, her dreams are eerie ; 
And oh, her widow'd heart is sair, 

That's absent frae her dearie. 

When I think on the lightsome days 

I spent wi' thee, my dearie ; 
And now what seas between us roar, 

How can I be but eerie ? 
For oh, &c. 

How slow ye move ye heavy hours ; 

The joyless day how dreary : 
It was na sae, ye glinted by, 

When I was wi' my dearie 
For oh, &c. 

Tell me how you like-this. I differ from 
your idea of the expression of the tune. There 
is, to me, a great deal of tenderness in it. 
You cannot, in my opinion, dispense with a 
bass to your addenda airs. A lady of my ac- 
quaintance, a noted performer, plays and sings 



My Eppie's voice, O vow it's sweet, 

Even tho' she bans and scanlds a nee: 
But when it's tun'd to sorrow's tale, 

O, haitli, its doubly dear to me! 

Come in, auld carl, I'll steer my lire, 

^I'll make it bleeze a bonnie flame : 

it the gate, 



Ye should ua stray sae 

" Nae harae have I, the 

Sad party. strife o'ei turned my ha' 
And, weeping at the eve o' life, 

I wauder thro' a wreath o' snaw.' 






This affecting poem is apparently incomplete. The 
author need not be ashamed to own himself. It is 
worthy of Burua, or of Macneil. 



at the same time so charmingly, that I shah 
never bear to see any of her songs sent into 
the world, as naked as Mr "What- d'ye call-um 
has done in his London collection.* 

These English songs gravel me to death. 
I have not that command of the language that 
I have of my native tongue. I have been at 
Duncan Gray, to dr.ess it in English, but all I 
can do is deplorably stupid. For instance. 

Tane—" Duncan Gray." 

Let not women e 'er complain, 

Of inconstancy in love; 
Let not women e'er complain, 

Fickle man is apt to rove ; 

Look abroad through Nature's range, 

Nature's mighty law. is change ; 
Ladies would it not be strange; 

Man should then a monster prove ? 

Mark the winds, and mark the skies ; 

Ocean's ebb, and ocean's flow : 
Sun and moon but set to rise, 

Round and round the seasons go : 

Why then ask of silly man, 

To oppose great Nature's plan ? 
We'll be constant while we can— 

You can be no more you know. 

Since the above, I have been out in the 
country taking a dinner with a friend, where 
I met with the lady whom I mentioned in the 
second page of this odds-and-ends of a letter. 
As usual, I got into songs and returning home, 
I composed the following. 

THE LOVER'S MORNING SALUTE 

TO HIS MISTEESS. 
Tune— ir Deil tak the wars." 

Sleep's! thou, or wak'st thou, fairest creature ? 

Rosy morn now lifts his eye, 
Numbering ilka bud which Nature 

Waters wi' the tears o' joy : 

Now through the leafy woods, 

And by the reeking floods ; 
Wild Nature's tenants, freely, gladly stray ; 

The lintwhite in his bower 

Chants o'er the breathing flower • 

The lav'fock to the sky 

Ascends wi' sangs o'joy, 
While the sun and thou arise to bless the day.-f 
Phoebus gilding the brow o' morning 

Banishes ilka darksome shade, 
Nature gladdening and adorning ; 

Such to me my lovely maid. 



o the streaming fountain, 
' - M.y mountair 
y, wildly-vt 
fl bowers 
His lay the linnet pours: 
The lav'rock, See. 



224 



BQRNS' WORKS. 



When absent frae my fair, 

The murky shades o' care 
With starless gloom o'ercast my sullen sky ; 

But when in beauty's light, 

She meets my ravish'd sight, 

When through my very heart 

Her beaming glories dart ; 
'Tis then I wake to life, to light and joy.* 

If you honour my verses by setting the air to 
them, I will vamp up the old song, and make 
it English enough to be understood. 

I enclose you a musical curiosity, an East 
Indian air, which you would swear was a Scot- 
tish one. I know the authenticity of it, as the 
gentleman who brought it over is a particular 
acquaintance of mine. Do preserve me the 
copy 1 send you, as it is the only one I have. 
Clarke has set a bass to it, and I intend put- 
ting it into the Musical Museum. Here fol- 
low the verses I intend for it. 

THE AULD MAN. 

But lately seen in gladsome green 

The woods rejoiced the day, 
Thro' gentle showers the laughing flowers 

In double pride were gay : 
But now our joys are fled, 

On winter blasts awa ! 
Yet maiden May, in rich array, 

Again shall bring them a'. 
But my white pow, nae kindly thowe 

Shall melt the snaws of age ; 
My trunk of eild, but buss or beild, 

Sinks in time's wintry rage. 
Oh, age has weary days, 

And nights o' sleepless pain ! 
Thou golden time o' youthfu' prime, 

Why comest thou not again ! 

I would be obliged to you if you would pro- 
cure me a sight of Ritson's collection of Eng- 
lish songs, which you mention in your letter. 
I will thank you for another information, and 
that as speedily as you please : whether this 
miserable drawling hotch-potch epistle has not 
completely tired you of my correspondence. 



No. LXI. 

Me THOMSON to Mb BURNS. 

Edinburgh, 27th October, 1794. 
I am sensible, my dear friend, that a genuine 
poet can no more exist without his mistress 



* Variation. 

Sad, cli' hearted, [sky; 

Then aight's gloomy shades, cloudy, dark, o'ercast my 
But when she charms my sight, 
In pride of beauty's light, 
When thro' my very Heart 
Her beaming glories dart ; 
tie then, 'tis then I wake to life and iov 



than his meat. I wish I knew the adorable 
she, whose bright eyes and witching smiles 
have so often enraptured the Scottish bard ! 
that I might drink her sweet health when the 
toast is going round. Craigie-burn wood, must 
certainly be adopted into my family, since she 
is the object of the song ; but in the name ol 
decency, I must beg a new chorus verse from 
you. O to be lying beyond thee, dearie, is per 
haps a consummation to be wished, but will not 
do for singing in the company of ladies. The 
songs in your last will do you lasting credit, 
and suit the respective airs charmingly. I am 
perfectly of your opinion with respect to the 
additional airs. The idea of sending them in- 
to the world naked as they were born was un- 
generous. They must all be clothed and made 
decent by our friend Clarke. 

I find I am anticipated by the friendly Cun- 
ningham, in sending you Ritson's Scottish col- 
lection. Permit me, therefore, to present you 
with his English collection, which you will re- 
ceive by the coach. I do not find his histori- 
cal essay on Scottish song interesting. Your 
anecdotes and miscellaneous remarks will, I 
am sure, be much more so. Allan has just 
sketched a charming design from Maggie Lau- 
der. She is dancing with such spirit as to 
electrify the piper, who seems almost dancing 
too, while he is playing with the most exqui- 
site glee. 

I am much inclined to get a small copy, and 
to have it engraved in the style of Ritson's 
prints. 

P. S. — Pray, what do your anecdotes say 
concerning Maggie Lauder? was she a real 
personage, and of what rank? You would 
surely spier for her if you ca'd at Anslruther 
town. 



Mb BURNS to Mb THOMSON. 

November, 1794. 
Many thanks to you, my dear sir, for your 
present : it is a book of the utmost importance 
to me. I have yesterday begun my anecdotes, 
&c. for your work. I intend drawing it up in 
the form of a letter to you, which will save mo 
from the tedious dull business of systematic 
arrangement. Indeed, as all I have to eay con- 
sists of unconnected remarks, anecdotes, scraps, 
old songs, &c. it would be impossible to give 
the work a beginning, a middle, and an end ; 
which the critics insist to be absolutely neces- 
sary in a work. * In my last, I told you my 
objections to the song you had selected for My 
lodging is on the cold ground. On my visit the 
other day to my fair Chloris (that is the poetic 



* It does not appear whether Burn completed these 
anecdotes, &c. Something of the kind (probably the 
rude draughts) was found ainone^t his papers, and ap- 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



225 



name of the lovely goddess of my inspiration) 
she suggested an idea, which I, in my return 
from the visit, wrought into the following 
song. 

My Chloris, mark how green the groves, 

The primrose banks how fair : 
The balmy gales awake the flowers, 

And wave thy flaxen hair. 

The lav'rock shuns the palace gay, 

And o'er the cottage sings : 
For nature smiles as sweet, I ween, 

To shepherds as to kings. 

Let minstrels sweep the skilfu' string 

In lordly lighted ha'; 
The shepherd stops his simple reed, 

Blythe, in the birken shaw. 

The princely revel may survey 

Our rustic dance wi' scorn ; 
But are their hearts as light as ours 

Beneath the milk-white thorn ? 

The shepherd, in the flowery glen, 

In shepherd's phrase will woo : 
The courtier tells a finer tale, 

But is his heart as true ? 

These wild-wood flowers I've pu'd, to deck 
That spotless breast o' thine : 

The courtier's gems may witness love- 
But 'tis na love like mine. 

How do you like the simplicity and tenderness 
of this pastoral ? I think it pretty well. 

I like you for entering so candidly and so kind- 
ly into the story of ma chere amie. I assure you, 
I was never more in earnest in my life, than 
in the account of that affair which I sent you in 
my last. Conjugal love is a passion which I 
deeply feel and highly venerate ; but, somehow, 
it does not make such a figure in poesy as that 
other species of the passion, 

" Where Love is liberty, and nature law." 

Musically speaking, the first is an instrument 
of which the gamut is scanty and confined, but 
the tones inexpressibly sweet ; while the last 
has power equal to all the intellectual modula- 
tions of the human soul. Still, I am a very poet 
in my enthusiasm of the passion. The welfare and 
happiness of the beloved object is the first and 
inviolate sentiment that pervades my soul ; and 
whatever pleasures I might wish for, or what- 
ever might be the raptures they would give me, 
yet, if they interfere with that first principle, it 
is having these pleasures at a dishonest price ; 
and justice forbids, and generosity disdains to 
purchase ! 

Despairing of my own powers to give you 
variety enough in English songs, I have been 
turning over old collections to pick out songs 



of which the measure is something similar to 
what I want ; and, with a little alteration, so as 
to suit the rhyme of the air exactly, to give 
you them for your work. Where the songs 
have hitherto been but little noticed, nor have 
ever been set to music, I think the shift a fair 
one. A song, which, under the same first verse, 
you will find in Ramsay's Tea. Table Miscel- 
lany, I have cut down for an English dress to 
your, " Dainty Davie" as follows. 

SONG, 

ALTERED FROM AN OLD ENGLISH ONE. 

It was the charming month of May, 
When all the flowers were fresh and gay 
One morning by the break of day, 
The youthful, charming Chloe ; 

From peaceful slumber she arose, 
Girt on her mantle and her hose, 
And o'er the flowery mead she goes, 
The youthful, charming Chloe. 



Lovely was she by the dawn, 

Youthful Chloe, charming Chloe, 

Tripping o'er the pearly lawn, 
The youthful, charming Chloe. 

The feather'd people you might see 
Perch'd all around on every tree, 
In notes of sweetest melody 
They hail the charming Chloe ; 

'Till, painting gay the eastern skies, 
The glorious sun began to rise, 
OutrivalPd by the radiant eyes 
Of youthful, charming Chloe. 
Lovely was she, &c. 

You may think meanly of this, but take a 
look at the bombast original, and you will be 
surprised that I have made so much of it. 1 
have finished my song to " Rothiemurchie's 
Rant ;" and you have Clarke to consult, as to 
the set of the air for singing. 

LASSIE WI' THE LINT- WHITE 
LOCKS. 

Tune — " Kothieinurchie's Rant." 



Lassie wi' the lint-white locks, 
Bonnie lassie, artless lassie, 

Wilt thou wi' me tent the flocks, 
Wilt thou be my dearie O. 

Now Nature deeds the flowery lea, 
And a' is young and sweet like thee j 
O wilt thou share its joys wi' me, 
And say thou'lt be my dearie O. 
Lassie wi', &c. 
P 



226 



BURNS' WORKS. 



And when the welcome summer-shower 
Has cheer'd ilk drooping little flower, 
We'll to the breathing woodbine bower, 
At sultry noon, my dearie O. 
Lassie wi*, &c. 

When Cynthia lights, wi' silver ray, 
The weary shearer's hameward way ; 
Thro' yellow waving fields we'll stray, 
And talk o' love, my dearie O. 
Lassie wi', &c. 

And when the howling wintry blast 
Disturbs my lassie's midnight rest ; 
Enclasped to my faithfu' breast, 
I'll comfort thee, my dearie O.* 

Lassie wi' the lint-white locks, 

Bonnie lassie, artless lassie, 
Wilt thou wi' me tent the flocks, 

Wilt thou be my dearie O. 

This piece has at least the merit of being a 
regular pastoral : the vernal morn, the summer 
noon, the autumnal evening, and the winter 
night are regularly rounded. If you like it, 
well : if not, I will insert it in the Museum. 

I am out of temper that you should set so 
sweet, so tender an air, as, " Deiltak the wars," 
to the foolish old verses. You talk of the 
silliness of " Saw ye my Father f by heavens 
the odds is gold to brass ! Besides, the old 
song, though now pretty well modernized into 
the Scottish language, is, originally, and in the 
early editions, a bungling low imitation of the 
Scottish manner, by that genius Tom D' Urfey; 
so has no pretensions to be a Scottish produc- 
tion. There is a pretty English song by 
Sheridan in the " Duenna," to this air, which 
is out of sight superior to D'Urfey's. It 
begins, 

"When sable night each drooping plant restoring." 

The air, if I understand the expression of it 
properly, is the very native language of sim- 
plicity, tenderness and love. I have again 
gone over my song to the tune as follows, f 

Now for my English song to " Nancy's to 
the Greenwood," &c. \ 



e of the MSS. this stanza n 



s thus : 



And should the howling wintry blast 

Disturb my lassie's midnight rest: 

I'll fauld thee to my faithfu' breast, 

And comfort thee, my dearie, O. 

+ See the song in its first and best dress in p. 223. 
Our bard remarks upon it, " I could easily throw this 
Into an English mould; but, to my taste, in the simple 
find the tender of the pastoral song, a sprinkling of the 
aid Scottish has an inimitable effect." 

t Here our poet gives anew edition of the song in p. 
801. of this volume, and proposes it for another tune. 
The alterations are unimportant. The name Maria, he 
jhanges to Eliza. Instead of the tentli and eleventh 
Hues, as in p. 201, he introduces, 



There is an air, " The Caledonian Hunt's 
delight,'' to which I wrote a song that you 
will find in Johnson. " Ye banks and braes 
o' bonnie Doon ;" this air, I think, might find 
a place among your hundred as Lear says, 
of his nights. Do you know the history of the 
air ? It is curious enough. A good many years 
ago, Mr James Miller, writer in your good 
town, a gentleman whom possibly you know, 
was in company with our friend Clarke ; and 
talking of Scottish music, Miller expressed an 
ardent ambition to be able to compose a Scots 
air. Mr Clarke, partly by way of joke, told 
him to keep to the black keys of the harpsi- 
chord, and preserve some kind of rhythm ; and 
he would infallibly compose a Scots air. Cer- 
tain it is, that in a few days, Mr Miller pro- 
duced the rudiments of an air, which Mr 
Clarke, with some touches and corrections, 
fashioned into the tune in question. Ritson, 
you know, has the same story of the black 
keys ,■ but this account, which I have just given 
you, Mr Clarke informed me of several years 
ago. Now, to show you how difficult it is to 
trace the origin of our airs, I have heard it re- 
peatedly asserted that this was an Irish air; 
nay, I met with an Irish gentleman who affirmed 
that he had heard it in Ireland among the old 
women ; while, on the other hand, a countess 
informed me that the first person who intro- 
duced the air into this country, was a baronet's 
lady of her acquaintance, who took down the 
notes from an itinerant piper in the Isle of 
Man. How difficult then to ascertain the 
truth respecting our poesy and music! I, 
myself, have lately seen a couple of ballads 
sung through the streets of Dumfries, with my 
name at the head of them as the author, though 
it was the first time I had ever seen them. 

I thank you for admitting Craigie-burn 
wood; and I shall take care to furnish you 
with a new chorus. In fact, the chorus was 
not my work, but a part of some old verses to 
the air. If I catch myself in a more than 
ordinarily propitious moment I shall write a 
new Craigie-burn wood altogether. My heart 
is much in the theme. 

I am ashamed, my dear fellow, to make the 
request; 'tis dunning your generosity ; but in 
a moment when I had forgotten whether I was 
rich or poor, I promised Chloris a copy of your 
songs. It wrings my honest pride to write 
you this ; but an ungracious request is doubly 
so, by a tedious apology. To make you some 
amends as soon as I have extracted the neces- 
sary information out of them, I will return 
you Ritson's volumes. 

The lady is not a little proud that she is to 
make so distinguished a figure in your collec- 
tion, and I am not a little proud that I have 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



007 



It in my power to please her so much. Lucky 
it is for your patience that my paper is done, 
for when I am in a scribbling humour, I know- 
not when to give over. 



Mr THOMSON to Ma BURNS. 

My Good Sir, 15th November 1794. 

Since receiving your last, I have had another 
interview with Mr Clarke, and a long consul- 
tation. He thinks the Caledonia?i Hunt is 
more bacchanalian than amorous in its nature, 
and recommends it to you to match the air 
accordingly. Pray did it ever occur to you 
how peculiarly well the Scottish airs are 
adapted for verses, in the form of a dialogue ? 
The first part of the air is generally low, 
and suited for a man's voice, and the second 
part, in many instances, cannot be sung, at con- 
cert pitch, but by a female voice. A song 
thus performed makes an agreeable variety, 
but few of ours are written in this form : 
I wish you would think of it in some of those 
that remain. The only one of the kind you 
have sent me is admirable, and will be an uni- 
versal favourite. 

Your verses for Rothiemurchie are so sweet- 
ly pastoral, and your serenade to Chloris, for 
Veil tah the wars, so passionately tender, that I 
nave sung myself into raptures with them, 
Your song for My lodging is on the coM ground 
is likewise a diamond of the first water ; I am 
quite dazzled and delighted by it. Some of 
your Chlorises I suppose have flaxen hair, 
from your partiality for this colour ; else we 
differ about it ; for I should scarcely conceive 
a woman to be a beauty, on reading that she 
had lint-white locks ! 

Farewell thou stream that winding flows, I 
think excellent, but it is much too serious to 
come after Nancy; at least it would seem an 
incongruity to provide the same air with merry 
Scottish and melancholy English verses ! The 
more that the two sets of verses resemble 
each other in their general character, the better. 
Those you have manufactured for Dainty 
Dame, will answer charmingly. I am happy 
to find you have begun your anecdotes. I care 
not how long they be, for it is impossible that 
any thing from your {"en can be tedious. Let 
me beseech you to use no ceremony in telling me 
when you wish to present any of your friends 
with the songs : the next carrier will bring you 
three copies, and you are as welcome to twenty 
rs to a pinch of snuff. 



No. LXIV. 

Ma BURNS to Mr THOMSON. 

19th November 1794. 
You see, my dear sir, what a punctual cor- 
respondent I am ; though indeed you may 
thank yourself for the tedium of my letters, 
as you have so flattered me on my horseman- 
ship with my favourite hobby, and have prais- 
ed the grace of his ambling so much, that I 
am scarcely ever off his back. For instance, 
this morning, though a keen blowing frost, in 
my walk before breakfast, I finished my duet 
which you were pleased to praise so much. 
Whether I have uniformly succeeded, I will 
not say ; but here it is for you, though it is 
not an hour old. 

Tune—" The sow's tail." 



O Philly, happy be that day 
When roving through the gather'd ha 
My youthfu' heart was stown away, 
And by thy charms, my Philly. 



O Willie, aye I bless the grove 
Where first I own'd my maiden love, 
Whilst thou didst pledge the powers above, 
To be my ain dear Willie. 



As songsters of the early year 
Are ilka day mair sweet to hear, 
So ilka day to me mair dear 
And charming is my Philly. 

SHE. 

As on the brier the budding rose 
Still richer breathes and fairer blow 
So in my tender bosom grows 
The love I bear my Willie. 



The milder sun and bluer sky, 
That crown my harvest cares wi' joy, 
Were ne'er sae welcome to my eye 
As is a sight of Philly. 



The little swallow's wanton wing, 
Tho' wafting o'er the flowery spring 
Did ne'er to me sic tidings bring, 
As meeting o' my Willie. 



The bee, that thro' the sunny hour 
Sips nectar in the opening flower, 
Compar'd wi' my delight is poor, 
Upon the lips o' Philly. 



The woodbine i 



the dewy weet 
P2 



•BURNS' WORKS 



When evening shades in silence meet, 
Is nocbt sae fragrant or sae sweet 
As is a kiss o' Willie. 



Let fortune's wheel at random rin, 
And fools may tyne, arid knaves may win : 
My thoughts are a' bound upon ane, 
And that's my ain dear Philly. 

SHE. 

What's a' the joys that gowd can gie ? 
I care nae wealth a single flie ; 
The lad I loe's the lad for me, 
And that's my ain dear Willie. 

Tell me honestly how you like it : and point 
out whatever you think faulty. 

I am much pleased with your idea of sing- 
ing our songs in alternate stanzas, and regret 
that you did not hint it to me sooner. In those 
that remain, I shall have it in my eye. I re- 
member your objections to the name, Philly; 
but it is the common abbreviation of Phillis. 
Sally, the only other name that suits, has, to 
my ear, a vulgarity about it, which unfits it for 
any thing except burlesque. The legion of 
Scottish poetasters of the day, whom your 
brother editor, Mr Ritson, ranks with me, as 
my coevals, have always mistaken vulgarity 
for simplicity; whereas simplicity is as much 
eloignee from vulgarity on the one hand, as 
from affected point and puerile conceit, on the 
other. 

I agree with you as to the air, "Craigie-barn 
wood,"- that a chorus would in some degree 
spoil the effect, and shall certainly have none 
in my projected song to it. It is not however 
a case in point with " Rothiemurchie ;" there, 
as in " Roy's Wife of Aldivalloch," a chorus 
goes to my taste well enough. As to the 
chorus going first, that is the case with " Roy's 
Wife," as well as " Rothiemurchie." In fact, 
in the first part of both tunes, the rhyme is 
so peculiar and irregular, and on that irregu- 
larity depends so much of their beauty, that 
we must e'en take them with all their wildness, 
and humour the verse accordingly. Leaving out 
the starting note, in both tunes, has, I think, 
an effect that no regularity could counterbal- 
ance the want of. 

j, I O Roy's wife of Aldivalloch. 

^ I O lassie wi' the lint-white locks. 
and 

Compare C Roy's wife of Aldivalloch. 

with, l Lassie wi' the lint-white locks. 

Does not the tameness of the prefixed syllable 
strike you ? In the last case, with the true 
furor of genius, you strike at once into the 
wild originality of the air ; whereas in the 
first insipid method, it is like the grating screw 
of the pins before the fiddle is brought into 
tune. This i? my taste ; if I am wrong I beg 
pardon c he cognoscenti. 



" The Caledonian Hunt" is so charming, 
that it would make any subject in a song go 
down ; but pathos is certainly its native tongue. 
Scottish Bacchanalians we certainly want, 
though the few we have are excellent. Foi 
instance, " Todlin hame " is, for wit and hu- 
mour, an unparalleled composition ; and " Andro 
and his cutty gun " is the work of a master. 
By the way, are you not quite vexed to think 
that those men of genius, for such they 
certainly were, who composed our fine 
Scottish lyrics, should be unknown ! It has 
given me many a heart-ache. Apropos to 
Bacchanalian songs in Scottish ; I composed 
one yesterday for an air I like much — "Lumps 
o' pudding." 

Contented wi' little, and cantie wi' mair, 
Whene'er I forgather wi' sorrow and care, 
I gie them a skelp, as they're creeping alang, 
Wi' a cog o' guid swats and an auld Scottish 
sang. 

I whyles claw the elbow o' troublesome thought; 
But man is a sodger, and life is a faught : 
My mirth and guid humour are coin in my 

pouch, 
And my freedom's my lairdship nae monarch 

dare tOHch. 

A towmond o' trouble, should that be my fa' 
A night o' guid fellowship sowthers it a' : 
When at the blythe end of our journey at last, 
Wha the deil ever thinks o' the road he has 
past? 

Blind chance, let her snapper and stoyte on her 

way; 
Be't to me, be't frae me, e'en let the jad gae : 
Come ease, or come travail ; come pleasure or 

pain; 
My warst word is — " Welcome and welcome 



If you do not relish the air, I will send it tc 
Johnson. 

Since yesterday's penmanship, I have fram- 
ed a couple of English stanzas, by way of an 
English song to Boy's wife. You will allow 
me that in this instance, my English corres- 
ponds in sentiment with the Scottish. 

CANST THOU LEAVE ME THUS 
MY KATY? 



Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy ' 
Canst thou leave me thus my Katy ? 
Well thou knovv'st my aching heart, 
And canst thou leave me thus for pity? 

Is this thy plighted fond regard, 
Thus cruelly to part, my Katy? 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



229 



Is this thy faithful swain's reward — 
An aching, broken heart, my Katy ? 
Canst thou, &c. 

Farewell ! and ne'er such sorrows tear 
That fickle heart of thine, my Katy ! 

Thou may'st find those will love thee dear — 
But not a love like mine, my Katy. 
Canst thou, &c* 

Well! I think this, to be done in two or 
three turns across my room, and with two or 
three pinches of Irish Blackguard, is not so 
tar amiss. You see I arn determined to have 
my quantum of applause from somebody, 

Tell my friend Allan (for lam sure that we 
only want the trifling circumstance of being 
known to one another, to be the best friends 
on earth), that I much suspect he has, in his 
plates, mistaken the figure of the stock and 
norn. I have, at last, gotten one ; but it is a 
very rude instrument. It is composed of three 
parts ; the stock which is the hinder thigh bone 
of a sheep, such as you see in a mutton-ham ; 
the horn, which is a common Highland cow's 
horn, cut off at the smaller end, until the aper- 
ture be large enough to admit the stock to be 
pushed up through the horn, until it be held 
by the thicker end of the thigh-bone ; and 
lastly, an oaken reed exactly cut and notched 
like that which you see every shepherd-boy 
have, when the corn stems are green and full- 



•Tothisaddres3, in the character of a forsaken lover, 
a reply was found on the part of the lady, among the 
MSS. of our hard, evidently in a female hand writing- ; 
which is doubtless that referred to in p. 211 of this vo- 
time. The temptation to give it to the public is irre- 
sistible ; and if, in so doing, offence should be given to 
the fair authoress, the beauty of her verses must plead 



Tune—" Roy's wife." 

CHORUS. 

Stay, my Willie— yet believe me, 

Stay, my Willie— yet believe me, 

'Tweel thou know'st na every pang 

Wad wring my bosom shouldst thou leave me. 

1 ell me that thou yet art true, 

And a' my wrongs shall be forgiven, 
And when this heart proves fause to thee, 

Yon sun shall cease its course in heaven. 
Stay, my Willie, &o. 

But to think I was betray'd, 

That falsehood e'er our love should sunder 
To take the fiow'ret to my breast, 

And find the guilefu' serpent uuder ! 
Stay, my Willie, &c. 

Could I hope thou'dst ne'er deceive, 

Celestial pleasures might I choose 'em, 
I'd slight, nor seek in other spheres 

That heaven I'd find within thy bosom. 
Stay, my Willie, &c. 

It may amuse the reader to be told, that on this o 
casion the gentleman and the lady have exchanged the 
dialects of their respective countries. The Scottish bard 
makes hie address in pure English ; the reply on the 
part of the lady, in the Scottish dialect, is, if we mistake 
not, by a young and beautiful Englishwoman. 



grown. The reed is not made fast in the bone, 
but is held by the lips, and plays loose in the 
smaller end of the stock; while the stock; 
with the horn hanging on its larger end, is held 
by the hands in playing. The stock has sk 
or seven ventiges on the upper side, and one 
back-ventige, like the common flute. This of 
mine was made hy a man from the braes of 
Athole, and is exactly what the shepherds 
wont to use in that country. 

However, either it is not quite properly bored 
in the holes, or else we have not (he art of 
blowing it rightly : for we can make little use 
of it. If Mr Allan chooses, I will send him a 
sight of mine ; as I look on myself to be J 
kind of brother-brush with him. " Pride in 
Poets is nae sin," and, I will say it, that I look 
on Mr Allan and Mr Bums to he the only 
genuine and real painters of Scottish custom ir 
the world. 



Mr THOMSON to Mr BURNS. 

SSth November, 1794. 
I acknowledge, my dear sir, you are not only 
the most punctual, but the most delectable cor- 
respondent I ever met with. To attempt flat- 
tering you never entered my head ; the truth 
is, I look back with surprise at my impudence, 
in so frequently nibbling at lines and couplets 
of your incomparable lyrics, for which, perhaps, 
if you had served me light, you would have 
sent me to the devil. On the contrary, how- 
ever, you have all along condescended to invite 
my criticism with so much courtesy, that it 
ceases to be wonderful, if I have sometimes 
given myself the airs of a reviewer. Your 
last budget demands unqualified praise : all 
the songs are charming, but the duet is a chef 
d'eeuvre. Lumps of pudding shall certainly 
make one of my family dishes : you have cook- 
ed it so capitally, that it will please all palates. 
Do give us a few more of this cast, when you 
find yourselfin good spirits : these convivial songs 
are more wanted than those of the amorous kind, 
of which we have great choice. Besides, one 
does not often meet with a singer capable of 
giving the proper effect to the latter, while the 
former are easily sung, and acceptable to every 
body. I participate in your regret that the 
authors of some of our best songs are unknown ; 
it is provoking to every admirer of genius. 

I mean to have a picture painted from your 
beautiful ballad, The soldier's return, to be 
engraved for one of my frontispieces. The 
most interesting point of time appears to me, 
when she first recognizes her ain dear Willy, 
" She gaz'd, she redden'd like a rose." The 
three lines immediately following, are no doubt 
more impressive on the reader's feelings ; but 
were the painter to fix on these, then you'll 
observe the animation and anxiety of her coun- 



230 



BURNS' WORKS. 



tenance is gone, and he could only represent 
her fainting in the soldier's arms. But I sub- 
mit the matter to you, and beg your opinion. 

Allan desires me to thank you, for your ac- 
curate description of the stock and horn, and 
for the very gratifying compliment you pay 
him, in considering him worthy of standing in 
a niche by the side of Burns in the Scottish 
Pantheon. He has seen the rude instrument 
you describe, so does not want you to send it ; 
but wishes to know whether you believe it to 
have ever been generally used as a musical 
pipe by the Scottish shepherds, and when, and 
in what part of the country chiefly. I doubt 
much if it was capable of any thing but routing 
and roaring. A friend of mine says, he re- 
members to have heard one in his younger 
days (made of wood instead of your bone), 
and that the sound was abominable. 

Do not, I beseech you, return any books. 



Mr BURNS to Mr THOMSON. 

December, 1794. 
It is, I assure you, the pride of my heart to 
do any thing to forward, or add to the value 
of your book : and as I agree with you that 
the Jacobite song, in the Museum, to There'll 
ne'er be peace till Jamie comes home, would not 
so well consort with Peter Pindar's excellent 
love-song to the air, I have just framed for you 
the following. 

MY NANNIE'S AWA. 

Tune—" There'll ne'er be peace," &c. 

Now in her green mantle blythe Nature arrays, 
And listens the lambkins that bleat o'er the 

braes, 
While birds warble welcome in ilka green 

shaw ; 
But to me it's delightless — my Nannie's awa. 

The snaw-drap and primrose our woodlands 

adorn, 
And violets bathe in the weet o' the morn ; 
They pain my sad bosom, sae sweetly they 

blaw, 
They mind me o' Nannie — and Nannie's awa. 

Thou lav'rock that springs frae the dews o' 

the lawn, 
The shepherd to warn o' the grey breaking 

dawn, 
And thou mellow mavis, that hails the night-fa,' 
Give over for pity — my Nannie's awa. 

Come autumn, sae pensive, in yellow and grey, 
And soothe me wi' tidings o' Nature's decay ; 
The dark dreary winter and wild driving snaw, 
Alane can delight me — now Nannie's awa. 



How does this please you ? As to the point 
of time for the expression, in your proposed 
print from my Sodger's return : It must cer- 
tainly be at — " She gazed." The interesting 
dubiety and suspense, taking possession of her 
countenance ; and the gushing fondness, with 
a mixture of roguish playfulness in his, strike 
me as things of which a master will make a 
great deal. In great haste, but in great truth, 
yours. 



Mr BURNS to Mr THOMSON. 

January, 1795. 
I fear for my songs : however, a few may please* 
yet originality is a coy feature, in composition) 
and in a multiplicity of efforts in the same style» 
disappears altogether. For these three thousand 
years, we poetic folks have been describing the 
spring, for instance ; and as the spring conti- 
nues the same, there must soon be a sameness 
in the imagery, &c. of these said rhyming folks. 
A great critic, Aiken on songs, says, that 
love and wine are the exclusive themes for song 
writing. The following is on neither subject, 
and consequently, is no song ; but will be al- 
lowed, I think, to be two or three pretty good 
prose thoughts, inverted into rhyme. 

FOR A' THAT AND A' THAT. 

Is there for honest poverty 

That hangs his head, and a' that 5 
The coward slave, we pass him by, 

We dare be poor for a' that ! 
For a' that, and a' that, 

Our toils obscure, and a' that, 
The rank is but the guinea's stamp, 

The man's the gowd for a' that. 

What though on hamely fare we dine, 

Wear hoddin' grey, and a' that ; 
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine, 

A man's a man for a' that j 
For a' that, and a' that, 

Their tinsel show and a' that : 
The honest man, though e'er sae poor, 

Is king o' men for a' that. 

Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord, 

Wha struts, and stares, and a' that : 
Though hundreds worship at his word, 

He's but a coof for a' that ; 
For a' that, and a' that, 

His riband, star, and a' that, 
The man of independent mind, 

He looks and laughs at a' that. 

A prince can mak a belted knight, 

A marquis, duke, and a' that ; 
But an honest man's aboon his might, 

Guid faith, he mauna fa' that ! 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



231 



For a* that, and a' that, 

Their dignities, and a' that, 
The pitii o' sense and pride o' worth, 

Are higher ranks than a' that. 

Then Jet us pray that come it may, 

As come it will for a' that, 
That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth, 

May bear the gree, and a' that. 
For a' that and a' that, 

Its comin' yet for a' that, 
That man to man, the warld o'er, 

Shall brothers be for a' that. 

I do not give you the frregoing song for 
your book, but merely by way of vive la baga- 
telle ; for the piece is not really poetry. How 
will the following do for Craigie-burn wood ? 

Sweet fa's the eve on Craigie-burn, 

And blythe awakes the morrow, 
But a' the pride o' spring's return 

Can yield me nocht but sorrow. 

I see the flowers and spreading trees, 

I hear the wild birds singing ; 
But what a weary wight can please, 

And care his bosom wringing ? 

Fain, fain would I my griefs impart, 

Yet dare na for your anger ; 
But secret love will break my heart, 

If I conceal it langer. 

If thou refuse to pity me, 

If thou shalt love anither, 
When yon green leaves fade frae the tree, 

Around my grave they'll wither. * 



Farewell ! God bless 



you. 



No. LXVIII. 
Mr THOMSON to Mr BURNS. 

My Deati Sir, Edinburgh, 30th Jan. 179o. 
I thank you heartily for Nannie' s awa, as well 
as for Craigie-burn, which I think a very come- 
ly pair. Your observation on the difficulty of 
original writing in a number of efforts, in the 
same style, strikes me very forcibly ; and it has 
again and again excited my wonder to find yov. 
continually surmounting this difficulty, m the 
many delightful songs you have sent me. Your 
vive la bagatelle song, For a? that, shall undoubt- 
edly be included in my list. 



No. LXIX. 
Ma BURNS to Mr THOMSON. 



February, 1795. 
Here is another trial at your favourite air. 



Tune—" Let n 



u tliis ae night." 



* Craigie-burn wood is situated on the banks of the 
river Moffat, and about three miles distant from the 
village of that nam;', celebrated for its medicinal 
waters. The woods of Craigie-burn and of Dumcrief, 
were at one time favourite haunts of our poet. It was 
there he met the " Lassie wi' the lint-white locks," 
and that he conceived several ot his beautiful lyrics. 



O Lassie, art thou sleeping yet, 
Or art thou wakin, I would wit, 

For love has bound me hand and foot, 
And I would fain be in, jo. 



O let me in this ae night, 
This ae, ae, ae night, 

For pity's sake this ae night, 
O rise and let me in jo. 

Thou hear'st the winter wind and weet, 
Nae star blinks thro' the driving sleet. 
Tak pity on my weary feet, 
And shield me frae the rain, jo. 
O let me in, &c. 

The bitter blast that round me blaws 
Unheeded howls, unheeded fa's ; 
The cauldness o' thy heart's the causa 
Of a' my grief and pain, jo. 
let me in, &c. 

HER ANSWER. 

O TELL nae me o' wind and rain, 
Upbraid nae me wi' cauld disdain. 
Grae back the road ye cam again, 
I winna let you in jo. 



I tell you now this ae night, 

This ae, ae, ae night ; 
And ance for a' this ae night ; 

I winna let you in, jo. 

The snellest blast at mirkest hours, 
That round the pathless wand'rer pours, 
Is nought to what poor she endures 
That's trusted faithless man, jo. 
I tell you now, &c. 

The sweetest iiower that deck'd the mead. 
Now trodden like the vilest weed : 
Let simple maid the lesson read, 
The weird may be her ain, jo. 
I tell you now, &c. 

The bird that charm'd his summer-dav 
Is now the cruel fowler's prey ; 
Let witless, trusting woman say 
How aft her fate's the same, jo. 
I tell you now, &«. 

I do not know whether it will do. 



232 



BURNS* WORKS. 



Mr BURNS to Mr THOMSON. 

Ecclefechan, 7th February, 1795. 

Mr Dear Thomson, 
Yov cannot have any idea of the predicament 
in which I write to you. In the course of my 
duty as supervisor (in which capacity I have 
acted of late) I came yesternight to this unfor- 
tunate, wicked little village. I have gone for- 
ward, but snows of ten feet deep have imped- 
ed my progress : I have tried to " gae back the 
gate I cam again," but the same obstacle has 
shut me up within insuperable bars. To add 
to my misfortune, since dinner, a scraper has 
been torturing catgut, in sounds that would 
have insulted the dying agonies of a sow, under 
the hands of a butcher, and thinks himself, on 
that very account, exceeding good company. 
In fact, I have been in a dilemma, either to 
get drunk, to forget these miseries ; or to hang 
myself, to get rid of them : like a prudent man, 
(a character congenial to my every thought, 
word, and deed,) I, of two evils have chosen 
the least, and am very drunk, at your service ! * 

I wrote you yesterday from Dumfries. I 
had not time then to tell you all I wanted to 
say ; and heaven knows, at present, I have not 
capacity. 

Do you know an air — I am sure you must 
know it, We'll gang nae mair to yon town ? I 
think, in slowish time, it would make an excel- 
lent song. I am highly delighted with it ; and 
if you should think it worthy of your attention, 
I have a fair dame in my eye to whom I would 
consecrate it. 

As I am just going to bed, I wish you a 
good night. 



Mr THOMSON to Mr BURNS. 

25th February, 1795. 
I have to thank you, my dear sir, for two 
epistles, one containing Let me in this ae night ; 
and the other from Ecclefechan, proving, that 
drunk or sober, your " mind is never muddy." 
You have displayed great address in the above 
song. Her answer is excellent, and at the 
same time takes away the indelicacy that other- 
wise would have attached to his entreaties. I 
like the song as it now stands, very much. 

I had hopes you would be arrested some 
days at Ecclefechan, and be obliged to beguile 



the tedious forenoons by song making. It will 
give me pleasure to receive the verses you in- 
tend for, O wat ye wha's in yon town. 



No. LXXIL 
Mr BURNS to Ma THOMSON. 

May, 1795. 
ADDRESS TO THE WOODLARK. 

Tune— " Wherell bonnie Annie lie." 

Or, " Loch-Erroch Side." 

O stay, sweet warbling wood-lark, stay, 
Nor quit for me the trembling spray, 
A helpless lover courts thy lay, 
Thy soothing fond complaining. 

Again, again that tender part, 
That I may catch thy melting art : 
For surely that wad touch her heart, 
Wha kills me wi' disdaining. 

Say, was thy little mate unkind, 
And heard thee as the careless wind ? 
Oh, nocht but love and sorrow join'd, 
Sic notes o' woe could wauken. 

Thou tells o' never-ending care ; 
O' speechless grief, and dark despair : 
For pity's sake, sweet bird, nae mair ? 
Or my poor heart is broken ! 

Let me know your very first leisure how 
you like this song. 

ON CHLORIS BEING ILL. 

Tune—" Aye waklnV* 



Long, long the night, 

Heavy comes the morrow, 

While my soul's delight, 
Is on her bed of sorrow. 

Can I cease to care, 
Can I cease to languish, 

While my darling fair 

Is on the couch of anguish ? 
Long, &c. 



Every hope is fled. 

Every fear is terror : 
Slumber e'en I dread, 

Every dream is horror. 
Long, &c 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



Hear me, pow'rs divine ! 

Oh, in pity hear me ! 
Take aught else of mine, 

But my Chloris spare me ! 
Long, &c. 

How do you like the foregoing ? The Irish 
air, " Humours of Glen," is a great favourite 
of mine, and as, except the silly stuff in the 
" Poor Soldier," there are not any decent 
verses for it, I have written for it as follow. 

SONG. 

Tune—" Humours of Glen." 

Their groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign lands 
reckon, 
Where bright-beaming summers exalt the 
perfume, 
Far dearer to me yon lone glen o' green 
breckan, 
Wi' the burn stealing under the lang yellow 
broom ; 
Far dearer to me are yon humble broom 
bowers, 
Where the blue-bell and gowan lurk lowly 



For there, lightly tripping amang the wild 
flowers, 
A-listening the linnet, aft wanders my Jean. 

Tho' rich is the breeze in their gay sunny 
valley8, 
And cauld Caledonia's blast on the wave; 
Their sweet-scented woodlands that skirt the 
proud palace, 
What are they ? The haunt o' the tyrant and 
slave ! 
The slave's spicy forests, and gold bubbling 
fountains. 
The brave Caledonian views with disdain ; 
He wanders as free as the winds of his moun- 
tains, 
Save Love's willing fetters, the chains o' his 
Jean. 

SONG. 

Tune—" Laddie, lie near me." 

'Twas na her bonnie blue e'e was my ruin ; 
Fair tho' she be, that was ne'er my undoing : 
'Twas the dear smile when nae body did mind 

us, 
'Twas the bewitching, sweet, stown glance o' 

kindness. 

Sair do I fear that to hope is denied me, 
Sair do I fear that despair maun abide me ; 
But tho' fell fortune should fate us to sever 
Queen shall she be in my bosom for ever. 

Mary, I'm thine wi" a passion sincerest, 

And thou hast alighted me love o' the dearest i 



And thou'rt the angel that never can alter, 
Sooner the sun in his motion would falter. 



Let me hear from you. 



Mb THOMSON to Ma BURNS. 

You must not think, my good sir, that I have 
any intention to enhance the value of my gift, 
when I say, in justice to the ingenious and 
worthy artist, that the design and execution 01 
" the Cotter's Saturday Night " is, in my 
opinion, one of the happiest productions of 
Allan's pencil. I shall be grievously disap- 
pointed if you are not quite pleased with it. 

The figure intended for your portrait, I think 
strikingly like you, as far as I can rememberyour 
phiz. This should make the piece interesting 
to your family every way. Tell me whether 
Mrs Burns finds you out among the figures. 

I cannot express the feeling of admiration 
with which I have read your pathetic "Address 
to the Wood-lark," your elegant " Panegyric 
on Caledonia," and your affecting verses on 
" Chloris' illness." Every repeated perusal 
of these gives new delight. The other song to 
" Laddie, lie near me," though not equal to 
these, is very pleasing. 



No. LXXIV. 

Mr BURNS to Mr THOMSON. 

ALTERED FROM AN OLD ENGLISH SONG. 
Air — " John Anderson my jo." 

How cruel are the parents 

Who riches only prize, 
And to the wealthy booby, 

Poor woman sacrifice. 
Meanwhile the hapless daughter 

Has but a choice of strife ; 
To shun a tyrant father's hate, 

Become a wretched wife. 

The ravening hawk pursuing, 

The trembling dove thus flies, 
To shun impelling ruin 

A while her pinions tries; 
'Till of escape despairing, 

No shelter or retreat, 
She trusts the ruthless falconer, 

And drops beneath his feet. 



BURNS' WORKS. 



SONG. 

Tune—" Deil tak the wars. 

Mark yonder pomp of costly fashion, 

Round the wealthy, titled bride : 
But when compared with real passion, 

Poor is all that princely pride. 

What are their showy treasures ? 

What are their noisy pleasures ? 
The gay, gaudy glare of vanity and art. 

The polish'd jewel's blaze, 

May draw the wond'ring gaze, 

And courtly grandeur bright, 

The fancy may delight, 
But never, never can come near the heart. 

But did you see my dearest Chloris, 

In simplicity's array ; 
Lovely as yonder sweet opening flower is, 

Shrinking from the gaze of day. 

O then the heart alarming, 

And all resistless charming. 
In Love's delightful fetters she chains the 
willing soul ! 

Ambition would disown 

The world's imperial crown, 

Even Av'rice would deny 

His worshipp'd deity, 
And feel thro' every vein Love's raptures roll. 

Well ! this is not amiss. You see how I 
answer your orders : your tailor could not be 
more punctual. I am just now in a high fit 
of poetizing, provided that the strait jacket of 
criticism don't cure me. If you can in a post 
or two administer a little of the intoxicating 
potion of your applause, it will raise your hum- 
ble servant's phrenzy to any height you want. 
I am at this moment " holding high converse ' : 
with the Muses, and have not a word to throw 
away on such a prosaic dog as you are. 



Mb BURNS to Mr THOMSON. 

May, 1794. 
Ten thousand thanks, for your elegant pre- 
sent ; though I am ashamed of the value of it, 
being bestowed on a man who has not by any 
means merited such an instance of kindness. 
I have shown it to two or three judges of the 
first abilities here, and they all agree with me 
in classing it as a first-rate production. My 
phiz is "sae kenspeckle,'-' that the very join- 
er's apprentice whom Mrs Burns employed 
to break up the parcel (I was out of town that 
day) knew it at once. My most grateful com- 
pliments to Allan, who has honoured my rus- 
tic muse so much with his masterly pencil. 
One strange coincidence is, that the little one 
who is making the felonious attempt on the 



cat's tail, is the most striking likeness of "ill- 
deedie damn'd, wee, rumble-garie urchin " oi 
mine, whom, from that propensity to witty 
wickedness and manfu' mischief, which even 
at twa days auld I foresaw would form the 
striking features of his disposition, I named 
Willie Nicol, a.'.er a certain friend of mine, 
who is one of tl.e masters of a grammar-school 
in a city which shall be nameless. 

Give the inclosed epigram to my much- 
valued friend Cunningham, and tell him that 
on Wednesday I go to visit a friend of his, to 
whom his friendly partiality in speaking of me, 
in a manner introduced me — I mean a well 
known military and literary character, Colonel 
Dirom. 

You do not tell me bow you liked my two 
last songs. Are they condemned ' 



Mr THOMSON to Mr BURNS. 

13th May, 1795. 
It gives me great pleasure to find that you are all 
so well satisfied with Mr Allan's production. 
The chance resemblance of your little fellow, 
whose promising disposition appeared so very 
early, and suggested whom he should be named 
after, is curious enough. I am acquainted 
with that person, who is a prodigy of learning 
and genius, and a pleasant fellow, though no 
saint. 

You really make me blush when you tell me 
you have not merited the drawing from me. 
I do not think I can ever repay you, or suf- 
ficiently esteem and respect you for the liberal 
and kind manner in which you have entered 
into the spirit of my undertaking, which could 
not have been perfected without you : So I 
beg you would not make a fool of me again, 
by speaking of obligation. 

I like your two last songs very much, and 
am happy to find you are in such a high fit of 
poetizing. Long may it last. Clarke has made 
a fine pathetic air to Mallet's superlative bal- 
lad of William and Margaret, and is to give it 
to me, to be inrclled among the elect. 



No. LXXVII. 
Mr BURNS to Mit THOMSON. 

In Wldsile and Fd come to ye, my lad, the iter- 
ation of that line is tiresome to my ear. Here- 
goes what I think is an improvement. 

O whistle and I'll come to ye, my lad : 
O whistle and I'll come to ye, my \;id ; 
Tho' father and mother, and a' should gat m::-i 
Thy Jeany will venture wi' ye, my lad. 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



235 



In fact, a fair dame at whose shrine I, the 
Priest of the Nine, offer up the incense of 
Parnassus ; a dame whom the Graces have at- 
tired in witchcraft, and whom the Loves have 
armed with lightning, a Fair One, herself the 
heroine of the song, insists on the amendment ; 
and dispute her commands if you dare ! 

SONG. 

Tune—" This is no my ain House." 



O this is no my ain lassie 

Fair tho' the lassie be ; 
O weel ken I my ain lassie, 

Kind love is in her e'e. 

I see a form, I see a face, 
Ye weel may wi' the fairest place : 
It wants to me the witching grace, 
The kind love that's in her e'e. 
O this is no, &c 

She's bonnie, blooming, straight, and tall, 
And lang has had my heart in thrall ; 
And aye it charms my very saul, 
The kind love that's in her e'e. 
O this is no, &c. 

A thief sae pawkie is my Jean, 

To steal a blink by a' unseen ; 

But gleg as light are lovers' e'en. 

When kind love is in her e'e. 

O this is no, &c. 

It may escape the courtly sparks, 
It may escape the learned clerks ; 
But weel the watching lover marks, 
The kind love that's in her e'e. 
O this is no, &c. 

Do you know that you have roused the tor- 
pidity of Clarke at last ? He has requested 
me to write three or four songs for him, which 
he is to set to music himself. The inclosed 
sheet contains two songs for him, which please 
to present to my valued friend Cunningham. 

I inclose the sheet open, both for your in- 
spection, and that you may copy the song, O 
bonnie was yon rosy brier. I do not know 
whether I am right ; but that song pleases me, 
and as it is extremely probable that Clarke's 
newly roused celestial spark will soon be 
smothered in the fogs of indulgence, if you 
like the song, it may go as Scottish verses, to 
the air of, / wish my lore was in the mire ; and 
poor Erskine's English lines may follow. 

I inclose you For a' that, and a' that, which 
was never in print : it is a much superior song 
to mine. I have been told that it was com- 
posed by a lady. 



To Mi CUNNINGHAM. 
SCOTTISH SONG. 

Now spring has clad the grove in green, 

And strew'd the lea wi' flowers ; 
The furrow'd, waving corn is seen 

Rejoice in fostering showers ; 
While ilka thing in nature join 

Their sorrows to forego, 
O why thus all alone are mine 

The weary steps of woe ! 

The trout within yon wimpling burn 

Glides swift, a silver dart, 
And safe beneath the shady thorn 

Defies the angler's art ; 
My life was ance that careless stream, 

That wanton trout was I ; 
But love, wi' unrelenting beam, 

Has scorch'd my fountains dry. 

The little flow'ret's peaceful lot, 

In yonder cliff that grows, 
Which save the linnet's flight, I wot, 

Nae ruder visit knows, 
Was mine ; till love has o'er me past, 

And blighted a' my bloom, 
And now beneath the withering blast. 

My youtn and joy consume. 

The vvaken'd lav'rock warbling springs, 

And climbs the early sky, 
Winnowing blythe her dewy wings 

In morning's rosy eye ; 
As little reckt I sorrow's power, 

Until the flowery snare 
O' witching love, in luckless hour, 

Made me the thrall, o' care. 

O had my fate been Greenland's snows, 

Or Afric's burning zone, 
Wi' man and nature leagued my foes, 

So Peggy ne'er I'd known ! 
The wretch whase doom is, " hope nae mai 

That tongue his woes can tell ! 
Within whase bosom, save despair, 

Nae kinder spirits dwell. 

SCOTTISH SONG. 

O eon'nie was yon rosy brier, 

That blooms sae far frae haunt o' man ; 
And bonnie she, and ah ! how dear ' 

It shaded frae the e'enin' sun. 

Yon rosebuds in the morning dew 

How pure, amang the leaves sae green , 

But purer was the lover's vow 

They witness'd in their shade yestreen. 

All in its rude and prickly bower, 

That crimson rose, how sweet and fair ! 

But love is far a sweeter flower 
Amid life's thorny path o' care. 



BURNS' WORKS. 



The pathless wild, and wimpling burn, 
Wi' Chloris in my arms, be mine ; 

And I the world, nor wish, nor scorn, 
Its joys and griefs alike resign. 

Written on the blank leaf of a copy of the 
last edition of my poems presented to the lady, 
whom in so many fictitious reveries of passion, 
but with the most ardent sentiments of real 
friendship, I have so often sung under the name 
of Chloris. 

'Tis Friendship's pledge, my young, fair friend, 

Nor thou the gift refuse, 
Nor with unwilling ear attend 

The moralizing muse. 

Since thou, in all thy youth and charms, 

Must bid the world adieu, 
(A world 'gainst peace in constant arms) 

To join the friendly few. 

Since thy gay morn of life o'ercast, 

Chill came the tempest's lour ; 
(And ne'er misfortune's eastern blast 

Did nip a fairer flower. ) 

Since life's gay scenes must charm no more, 

Still much is left behind ; 
Still nobler wealth hast thou in store, 

The comforts of the mind ! 

Thine is the self-approving glow. 

On conscious honour's part ; 
And, dearest gift of heaven below, 

Thine friendship's truest heart. 

The joys refined of sense and taste 

With every muse to rove ; 
And doubly were the poet blest 

These joys could he improve. 

Une bagatelle de I'amitie. 



Mb THOMSON to Mr BURNS. 

My Dear Sir, Edinburgh, 3d Aug. 1795. 
This will be delivered to you by a Dr Brian- 
ton, who has read your works, and pants for 
the honour of your acquaintance. I do not 
know the gentleman, but his friend who ap- 
plied to me for this introduction, being an ex- 
cellent young man, I have no doubt he is worthy 
of all acceptation. 

My eyes have just been gladdened, and my 
mind feasted, with your last packet — full of 
pleasant things indeed. What an imagination 
is yours ! It is superfluous to tell you that 
I am delighted with all the three songs, as 
well as your elegant and tender verses to Chloris. 

I am sorry you should be induced to alter 
O whistle and Fll come to ye, my lad, to tl"< 



prosaic line, Thy Jeany will venture voV ye mg 
lad. I must be permitted to say, that I do 
not think the latter either reads or sings se 
well as the former. I wish, therefore, you 
would in my name petition the charming 
Jeany, whoever she be, to let the line remain 
unaltered.* 

I should be happy to see Mr Clarke produce a 
fewsongstobejoinedtoyourverses. Everybody 
regrets his writing so very little, as everybody 
acknowledges his ability to write well. Pray, 
was the resolution formed coolly before dinner, 
or was it a midnight vow made over a bowl of 
punch with the bard ? 

I shall not fail to give Mr Cunningham what 
you have sent him. 

P. S The lady's For a' that and a' that is 

sensible enough, but no more to be compared 
to your's than I to Hercules. 



No. LXXIX. 

Mr BURNS to Mr THOMSON. 
ENGLISH SONG. 

Tune — " Let me in this ae night." 

Forlorn, my love, no comfort near, 

Far, far from thee I wander here ; 

Far, far from thee, the fate severe 

At which I most repine, love. 



O wert thou iOve, but near me, 
But near, near, near me ; 
How kindly thou wouldst cheer me. 
And mingle sighs with mine, love. 

Around me scowls a wintry sky, 
That blasts each bud of hope and joy ; 
And shelter, shade, nor home have I, 
Save in these arms of thine, love. 
O wert, &c. 

Cold, alter'd friendship's cruel part, 

To poison fortune's ruthless dart — 

Let me not break thy faithful heart, 

And say that fate is mine, love. 

O wert, &c. 

But dreary tho' the moments fleet, 
O let me think we yet shall meet ! 
That only ray of solace sweet 
Can on thy Chloris shine, love. 
O wert, &c. 

How do you like the foregoing? I havf 
w*i**;en it within this hour: so much for the 



* The Editor, who has heard the heroine of this s< 
sing it herself in the very spirit of arch simplicity t 
it requires, thinks Mr Thomson's petition unreas 
able. If we mistake not. this is the same lady w 
crodupai the lines to the tune of Roy's Wife, p. -i l J. 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



tpeed of my Pegasi 
voitom f 



I but what say you to bis 



Mb BURNS to Mr THOMSON. 

SCOTTISH BALLAD. 

Tune— " The Lothian Lassie." 

Last May a braw wooer cam down the lang 
glen, 
And sair wi' his love he did deave me ; 
I said there was naething I hated like men, 
The deuce gae wi'm, to believe me, believe 

me, 
The deuce gae wi'm, to believe me. 

He spak o' the darts in my bonnie black e'en, 
And vow'd for my love he was dying ; 

I said he might die when he liked, for Jean, 
The Lord forgi'e me for lying, for lying, 
The Lord forgi'e me tor lying ! 

A weel-stocked mailen, himsel' for the laird, 
And marriage aff band, were his proffers : 

I never loot on that I kend it, or cared, 
But thought I might hae waur offers, waur 

offers, 
But thought I might hae waur offers. 

But wbat wad ye think ? in a fortnight or less, 
The deil tak his taste to gae near her ! 

He up the lang loan to my black cousin Bess,* 
Guess ye bow the jad I could bear her, 
could bear her, 

Guess ye how the jad I could bear her. 

But a' the neist week as I fretted wi' care, 
I gaed to the tryste of Dalgarnock, 

And wha but my tine fickle lover was there ! 
I glowred as I'd seen a warlock, a warlock, 
I glowred as I'd seen a warlock. 

But owre my left shouther I gae him a blink, 
Lest neebors might say I was saucy j 

My wooer he caper'd as he'd been in drink, 
And vow'd I was his dear lassie, dear las- 
sie, 
And vow'd I was his dear lassie. 

I spier'd for my cousin fu' couthy and sweet, 
Gin she had recover'd ber bearin, 



» In the original MS. this line runs, " He up the 
Gateslack to my black cousin Bess :" Mr Thomson 
objected to this word, as well as to the word " Dalgar- 
nock" in the next verse. Mr Burns replies as follows : 

" Gateslack is the name of a particular place, a kind 
or passage, up amang the Lawther hills, on the con- 
fines of this county." "Dalgarnock is also the name 
of a romantic spot near the Nith, where are still a 
uined church and a burisil-ground." However, let the 
drat line run, " He up the lang loan," &c. 

It is always a pity to throw out any thing that gives 
locality to oui poet's verses. 



And how ber new shoon fit her auld shachlet 
feet, 

But heavens ! how he fell a swearin, a swear- 
in ! 

But heavens ! how he fell a swearin. 

He begged, for Gudesake ! I wad be his wife, 
Or else I would kill him wi' sorrow : 

So, e'en to preserve the poor body in life, 
I think I maun wed him to-morrow, to- 
morrow, 
I think I maun wed him to-morrow 

FRAGMENT. 

Tune— " The Caledonian Hunt's delight. 

Why, why tell thy lover, 

Bliss he never must enjoy } 
Why, why undeceive him, 

And give all his hopes the lie. 

O why, while fancy, raptured, slumbers, 
Chloris, Chloris all the theme, 

Why, why wouldst thou, cruel, 
Wake thy lover from bis dream. 



Such is the peculiarity of the rhythm of this 
air, that I find it impossible to make another 
stanza to suit it. 

I am at present quite occupied with the 
charming sensations of the toothache, so have 
not a word to spare. 



Ma THOMSON to Ma B URNS. 

MyDeab Sir, 3d June, 1795. 

Youa English verses to Let me in tltis ae night, 
are tender and beautiful ; and your ballad to 
the " Lothian Lassie" is a master-piece for its 
humour and naivete. Tbe fragment for the 
Caledonian Hunt is quite suited to the original 
measure of the air, and, as it plagues you so, 
the fragment must content it. I would rather, 
as 1 6aid before, have bad Bacchanalian words, 
had it so pleased tbe poet j but, nevertheless, 
for wbat we have received, Lord mak us 
thankful. 



No. LXXXII. 

Ma THOMSON to Ma BURNS. 

6th February, 1796. 
O Robby Burns, are ye sleeping yet ? 
Or are ye wauking, I would wit ? 

The pause you have made, my dear sir, is aw 



238 



BURNS' WORKS. 



ful ! Am I never to hear from you again ? I 
know and I lament how much you have been 
afflicted of late, but I trust that returning 
health and spirits will now enable you to re- 
sume the pen, and delight us with your mus- 
ings. I have still about a dozen Scotch and 
Irish airs that I wish " married to immortal 
verse." We have several true-born Irishmen 
on the Scottish list ; but they are now natu- 
ralized, and reckoned our own good subjects. 
Indeed we have none better. I believe I be- 
fore told you that I have been much urged by 
some friends to publish a collection of all our 
favourite airs and songs in octavo, embellished 
with a number of etchings by our ingenious 
friend Allan ; what is your opinion of this ? 



No. LXXXIII. 
Ma BURNS to Ma THOMSON. 

February, 1796. 
Many thanks, my dear sir, for your handsome, 

elegant present, to Mrs B , and for my 

remaining volume of P. Pindar. — Peter is a 
delightful fellow, and a first favourite of mine. 
I am much pleased with your idea of publish- 
ing a collection of our songs in octavo with 
etchings. I am extremely willing to lend 
every assistance in my power. The Irish airs 
I shall cheerfully undertake the task of finding 
verses for. 

I have already, you know, equipped three with 
words, and the other day I strung up a kind of 
rhapsody to another Hibernian melody, which 
I admire much. 

HEY FOR A LASS WP A TOCHER. 

Tune—" Balinamona Ora." 

Awa wi' your witchcraft o' beauty's alarms, 
The slender bit beauty you grasp in your arms ; 
O, gie me the lass that has acres o' charms, 
O, gie me the lass wi' the weel-stockit farms. 



Then hey for a lass wi' a tocher, then hey for 

a lass wi' a tocher, 
Then hey for a lass wi' a tocher ; the nice yel- 

low guineas for me. 

Your beauty's a flower, in the morning that 

blows, 
And withers the faster, the faster it grows ; 
But the rapturous charm o' the bonnie green 

knowes, 
Ilk spring they're new deckit wi' bonnie white 

yowes. 

Then, hey, &c. 

And e'en when this beauty your bosom has 

blest, 
The brightest o' beauty may cloy, when pos- 

sept i 



But the sweet yellow darlings wi* Geordie im- 
prest, 

The langer ye hae them — the mair they're ca- 
rest. 

Then, hey, &c. 

If this will do, you have now four of my 
Irish engagement. In my by-past songs, I 
dislike one thing ; the name Chloris — I meant 
it as the fictitious name of a certain lady ; but, 
on second thoughts, it is a high incongruity to 
have a Greek appellation to a Scottish pastoral 
ballad. — Of this, and some things else, in my 
next : I have more amendments to propose.— 
What you once mentioned of " flaxen locks" is 
just : they cannot enter into an elegant descrip- 
tion of beauty. — Of this also again God 

bless you!* 



No. LXXXIV. 

Ma THOMSON to Ma BURNS. 

Youa " Hey for a lass wi' a tocher" is a most 
excellent song, and with you the subject is 
something new indeed. It is the first time I 
have seen you debasing the god of soft desire 
into an amateur of acres and guineas. 

I am happy to find you approve of my pro- 
posed octavo edition. Allan has designed and 
etched about twenty plates, and I am to have 
my choice of them for that work. Independently 
of the Hogarthian humour with which they 
abound, they exhibit the character and costume 
of the Scottish peasantry with inimitable feli- 
city. In this respect he himself says, they 
will far exceed the aquatinta plates he did 
for the " Gentle Shepherd," because, in the 
etching, he sees clearly what he is doing; but 
not so with the aquatinta, which he could not 
manage to his mind. 

The Dutch boors of Ostade are scarcely 
more characteristic and natural, than the Scot 
tish figures in those etchings. 



No. LXXXV. 

Ma BURNS to Ma THOMSON. 

April, 1796. 
Alas, my dear Thomson, I fear it will be some 
time ere I tune my lyre again ! " By Babel 
streams I have sat and wept," almost ever since 
I wrote you last ; I have only known existence 
by the pressure of the heavy hand of sickness ; 
and have counted time by the repercussions of 
pain ! Rheumatism, cold, and fever, have form- 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



ed to me a terrible combination. I close my 
eyes in misery, and open them without hope. 
I look on the vernal day, and say with poor 
Fergusson — 

" Say wherefore has an indulgent heaven 
Light to the comfortless and wretched given?" 

This will be delivered to you by a Mrs 
Hyslop, landlady of the Globe tavern here, 
which for these many years has been my howf, 
and where our friend Clarke and I have had 
many a merry squeeze. I am highly delighted 
with Mr Allan's etchings. " Woo'd and mar- 
ried and a' " is admirable ! The grouping is be- 
yond all praise. The expression of the figures, 
conformable to the story in the ballad, is abso- 
lutely faultless perfection. I next admire 
•* Turnimspike." What I like least is, " Jenny 
said to Jockie." Besides the female being 

in her appearance if you take her 

stooping into the account, she is at least two 
inches taller than her lover. Poor Cleghorn ! 
I sincerely sympathize with him ! Happy I am 
to think that he has a well-grounded hope of 
health and enjoyment in this world. As for 
me — but that is a subject ! 



Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear, 
Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear ; 
Thou art sweet as the smile when fond lovers 

meet, 
And soft as the parting tear — Jessie ! 

Although thou maun never be mine, 

Although even hope is denied ! 
'Tis sweeter for thee despairing 

Than aught in the world beside — Jessie ! 
Here's a health, &c. 

I mourn thro' the gay, gaudy day, 

As, hopeless, I muse on thy charms •, 

But welcome the dream o' sweet slumber, 
For then I am lock't in thy arms — Jessie ! 
Here's a health, &c. 

I guess by the dear angel smile, 

I guess by the love-rolling e'e ; 
But why urge the tender confession 

'Gainst fortune's fell cruel decree — Jessie! 
Here's a health, &c. * 



No. LXXXVL 

Ma THOMSON to Ma BURNS. 

4th May, 1796. 
I need not tell you, my good sir, what con- 
cern the receipt of your last gave me, and how 
much I sympathize in your sufferings. But do 
not, I beseech you, give yourself up to despon- 
dency, nor speak the language of despair. 
The vigour of your constitution, I trust, will 
soon set you on your feet again ; and then, it 
is to be hoped, you will see the wisdom and 
the necessity of taking due care of a life so 
valuable to your family, to your friends, and to 
the world. 

Trusting that your next will bring agreeable 
accounts of your convalescence, and returning 
good spirits, I remain, with sincere regard, 
yours. 

P. S. — Mrs Hyslop, I doubt not, delivered 
the gold seal to you in good condition. 



No. LXXXVIL 

Ma BURNS to Ma THOMSON. 

My Dear Sir, 
I once mentioned to you an air which I have 
long admired, " Here's a health to them that's 
awa, hiney," but I forget if you took any notice 
of it. I have just been trying to suit it with 
verses ; and I beg leave to recommend the air 
to your attention once more. T have only be- 
gun it. 



No. LXXXVIII. 

Ma BURNS to Ma THOMSON. 

This will be delivered by a Mr Lewars, a 
young fellow of uncommon merit. As he will 
be a day or two in town, you will have leisure, 
if you choose, to write me by him ; and if you 
have a spare half hour to spend with him, I 
shall place your kindness to my account. I 
have no copies of the songs I have sent you, 
and I have taken a fancy to review them all, 
and possibly may mend some of them ; so when 
you have complete leisure, I will thank you 
for either the originals, or copies.f I had 
rather be the author of five well-written songs 
than of ten otherwise. I have great hopes 
that the genial influence of the approaching 
summer will set me to rights, but as yet I can- 
not boast, of returning health. I have now 
reason to believe that my complaint is a flying 
gout : a sad business ! 

Do let me know how Cleghorn is, and re- 
member me to him. 

This should have been delivered to you a 
month ago. I am still very poorly, but should 
like much to hear from you. 

* In the letter to Mr Thomson, the three first stanzas 
only are given, and Mr Thomson supposed our poet had 
never gone father. Among his MSS. was, however, 
found the fourth stanza, which completes this exquisiSo 
song, the last finished offspring of his muse. 

' \t is needless to say, that this revisai Burna did aol 
to perform. 



BURNS' WORKS. 



No. LXXXIX. 

Mr BURNS to Mb THOMSON. 

12th July, 1796. 
After all my boasted independence, curst 
necessity compels me to implore you for five 

pounds. A cruel of a haberdasher, 

to whom I owe an account, taking it into his 
head that I am dying, has commenced a pro- 
cess, and will infallibly put me into jail. Do, 
for God's sake, send me that sum, and that by 
return of post. Forgive me this earnestness, 
but the horrors of a jail have made me half 
distracted. I do not ask all this gratuitously ; 
for upon returning health, I hereby promise 
and engage to furnish you with five pounds 
worth of the neatest song genius you have seen. 
I tried my hand on " Rothiemurchie " this 
morning. The measure is so difficult, that it 
is impossible to infuse much genius into the 
lines ; they are on the other side. Forgive, 
forgive me ! 

SONG. 

Tune — " Rothiemurchie." 

Fairest maid on Devon banks, 
Crystal Devon, winding Devon, 

Wilt thou lay that frcwn aside, 
And smile as thou were wont to do. 

Full well thou knowest I love thee dear, 
Couldst thou to malice lend an ear ! 
O did not love exclaim, " Forbear ! 
Nor use a faithful lover so." 
Fairest maid, &c. 

Then come, thou fairest of the fair, 
Those wonted smiles, O let me share ; 
And by that beauteous self I swear, 
No love but thine my heart shall know. 
Fairest maid, &c* 

* These verses, and the letter enclosing them, are 



Mr THOMSON to Mr BURNS. 

My Dear Sik, 14th July, 1796. 

Ever since I received your melancholy letter 
by Mrs Hyslop, I have been ruminating in 
what manner I could endeavour to alleviate 
your sufferings. Again and again I thought 
of a pecuniary offer, but. the recollection of one 
of your letters on this subject, and the fear of 
offending your independent spirit, checked my 
resolution. I thank you heartily, therefore, 
for the frankness of your letter of the 12th, and 
with great pleasure inclose a draft for the very 
sum I proposed sending. Would I were the 
Chancellor of the Exchequer but for one day, 
for your sake. 

Pray, my good sir, is it not possible for you 
to muster a volume of poetry ? If too much 
trouble to you in the present state cf your 
health, some literary friend might be found 
here, who would select and arrange from your 
manuscripts, and take upon him the task of 
Editor. In the meantime it could be adver- 
tised to be published by subscription? Do 
not shun this mode of obtaining the value of 
your labour; remember Pope published the 
Iliad by subscription. Think of this, my 
dear Burns, and do not reckon me intrusive 
with my advice. You are too well convinced 
of the respect and friendship I bear you, to 
impute any thing I say to an unworthy motive. 
Yours faithfully. 

The verses to " Rothiemurchie " will answer 
finely. I am happy to see you can still tune 
your lyre. 

written in a character that marks the very feeble state 
of their author. Mr Syme is of opinion that he could 
not have been in any danger of a jail at Dumfries, 
where certainly he had many tirm friends, nor under any 
necessity of imploring aid from Edinburgh. But about 
this time his mmd be b ai. to be ;>t times unsettled, and 
the horrors of a jail perpetually haunted his imagina- 
tion. He died on the 22rt of this month. 



APPENDIX. 



It way gratify curiosity to know some particu- 
lars of the history of the preceding Poems, 
on which the celebrity of our Bard has been 
hitherto founded ; and with this view the 
following extract is made from a letter of 
Gilbert Burns, the brother of our Poet, and 
his friend and confidant from his earliest 
years. 



Dear Sib., Mossgiel, 2d April, 1798. 

_ Your letter of the 14th of March 
I received in due course, but, from the hurry 
of the season, have been hitherto hindered 
from answering it. I will now try to give you 
what satisfaction I can in regard to the parti- 
culars you mention I cannot pretend to be very 
accurate in respect to the dates of the poems, 
but none of them, except Winter, a Dirge, 
(which was a juvenile production,) the Death 
and Dying Words of poor Mailie, and some of 
the songs, were composed before the year 
1784. The circumstances of the poor sheep 
were pretty much as he has described them ; 
he had, partly by way of frolic, bought a ewe 
and two lambs from a neighbour, and she was 
tethered in a field adjoining the house at Loch- 
lie. He and I were going out with our teams, 
and our two younger brothers to drive for us, 
at mid-day, when Hugh Wilson, a curious look- 
ing awkward boy, clad in plaidmg, came to us 
with much anxiety in his face, with the infor- 
mation that the ewe had entangled herself in 
the tether, and was lying in the ditch. Rob- 
ert was much tickled with Hvghocs appearance 
and postures on the occasion. Poor Mailie 
was set to rights, and when we returned from 
the plough in the evening, he repeated to me 
her Death and Dying words pretty much in 
the way they now stand. 

Among the earliest of his poems was the 
Epistle to Davie Robert often composed 
without any regular plan. "When any thing 
made a strong impression on his mind, so as to 
rouse it to poetic exertion, he would give way 
to the impulse, and embody the thought in 
rhyme. If he hit on two or three stanzas to 
please him, he would then think of proper in- 
troductory, connecting, and concluding stan- 



zas ; hence the middle of a poem was often 
first produced. It was, I think, in summer, 
1784, when in the interval of harder labour, 
he and I were weeding in the garden (kail- 
yard), that he repeated to me the principal part 
of this epistle. I believe the lirst idea of 
Robert's becoming an author was started on 
this occasion. I was much pleased with the 
epistle, and said to him I was of opinion it 
would bear being printed, and that it would be 
well received by people of taste • that 1 thought 
it at least equal, if not superior, to many of 
Allan Ramsay's epistles, and that the merit of 
these, and much other Scotch poetry, seemed 
to consist principally in the knack of the ex- 
pression — but here, there was a strain or inter- 
esting sentiment, and the Scotticism of the 
language scarcely seemed affected, hut 
appeared to be the natural language of 
the poet; that, besides, there was certainly 
some novelty in a poet pointing out the con- 
solations that were in store for him when he 
should go a-begging. Robert seemed very well 
pleased with my criticism ; and we talked of 
sending it to some magazine, but as this plan 
afforded no opportunity of knowing how it 
would take, the idea was dropped. 

It was, I think, in the winter following, us 
we were going together with carts for coal to 
the family fire (and I could yet point out the 
particular spot), that the author first repeated 
to me the Address to the Deil The curious 
idea of such an address was suggested to him, 
by running over in his mind the many ludi- 
crous accounts and representations we have, 
from various quarters, of this august personage. 
Death and Dr Hornbook, though not pub- 
lished in the Kilmarnock edition, was produc- 
ed early in the year 1785. The schoolmaster 
of Tarbolton parish, to eke up the scanty sub- 
sistence allowed to that useful class of men, 
had set up a shop of grocery goods. Having 
accidentally fallen in with some medical books, 
and become most hobby-horsically attached to 
the study of medicine, he had added the sale of 
a few medicines to his little trade. He had 
got a shop-bill printed, at the bottom of which, 
overlooking his own incapacity, he had adver- 
tised, that " Advice would be given in com- 
mon disorders at the shop, gratis." Robe 
Q 



242 A.PPE 

was at a mason-meeting, in Tarbolton, when 
the " Dominie " unfortunately made too os- 
tentatious a display of his medical skill. As 
he parted in the evening from this mix- 
ture of pedantry and physic, at the place 
where he describes his meeting with Death, one 
of those floating ideas of apparition, he men. 
tions in his letter to Dr Moore, crossed his 
mind ; this set him to work for the rest of the 
way home. These circumstances he related 
when he repeated the verses to me next after- 
noon, as I was holding the plough, and he was 
letting the water off the field beside me. The 
Epistle to John Lapraih was produced exactly 
on the occasion described by the author. lit 
says in that poem, On fasten e'en he had a rockin 
(p. 144). I believe he has omitted the word 
rocking in the glossary. It is a term derived 
from those primitive times, when the country- 
women employed their spare hours in spinning 
on the rock, or distaff. This simple instru- 
ment is a very portable one, and well fitted to 
the social inclination of meeting in a neigh- 
bour's house ; hence the phrase of going a-rock- 
ing, or with the rock. As the connection the 
phrase had with the implement was forgotten 
when the rock gave way to the spinning-wheel, 
the phrase came to be used by both sexes on 
social occasions, and men talk of going with 
their rocks as well as women. 

It was at one of these rockings at our house, 
when we had twelve or fifteen young people 
with their rocks, that Lapraik's song, begin- 
ning — " When I upon thy bosom lean," was 
sung, and we were informed who was the 
author. Upon this Robert wrote his first 
epistle to Lapraik ; and his second in reply to 
his answer. The verses to the Mouse and 
Mountain Daisy were composed on the occa- 
sions mentioned, and while the author wa 
holding the plough : I could point out the par 
ticular spot where each was composed. Hold- 
ing the plough was a favourite situation with 
Robert for poetic compositions, and some of 
his best verses were produced while he was at 
that exercise. Several of the poems were pro- 
duced for the purpose of bringing forward some 
favourite sentiment of the author. He used 
to remark to me, that he could not conceive a 
more mortifying picture of human life, than a 
man seeking work. In casting about in hi? 
mind how this sentiment might be brought 
forward, the elegy, Man was made to Mourn, 
was composed. Robert had frequently re- 
marked to me, that he thought there was some- 
thing peculiarly venerable in the phrase, " Let 
us worship God," used by a decent sober 
head of a family introducing family worship. 
To this sentiment of the author the world is 
indebted for the Colter's Saturday Night. 
The hint of the plan, and title of the poem, 
were taken from Fergusson's Farmer's Ingle. 
When Robert had not some pleasure in view 
in which I was not thought fit to participate i 
we used frequently to walk together when thi 
weather was favourable on the Sunday after- 



noons (those precious breathing-times to the 
labouring part of the community), and enjoy- 
ed such Sundays as would make one regret to 
see their number abridged. It was in one ol 
these walks that I first had the pleasure of 
hearing the author repeat the Cotter's Satur- 
day Night. I do not recollect to have read or 
heard any thing by which I was more highly 
electrified. The fifth and sixth stanzas, and 
the eighteenth, thrilled with peculiar ecstasy 
through my soul. I mention this to you, that 
you may see what hit the taste of unlettered 
criticism. I should be glad to know, if the 
enlightened mind and refined taste of Mr 
Roscoe, who has borne such honourable testi- 
mony to this poem, agrees with me in the 
selection. Fergusson, in his Hallow Fair of 
Edinburgh, I believe, likewise furnished a hint 
of the title and plan of the Holy Fair. The 
farcical scene the poet there describes was 
often a favourite field of his observation, and 
the most of the incidents he mentions had ac- 
tually passed before his eyes. It is scarcely 
uecessary to mention, that the Lament was 
composed on that unfortunate passage in his 
matrimonial history, which I have mentioned 
in my letter to Mrs Dunlop, after the first dis- 
traction of his feelings had a little subsided. 
The Tale of Twa Dogs was composed after 
the resolution of publishing was nearly taken. 
Robert had had a dog, which he called Luath, 
that was a great favourite. The dog had been 
killed by the wanton cruelty of some person 
the night before my father's death. Robert 
said to me, that he should like to confer such 
immortality as he could bestow upon his old 
friend Luath, and that he had a great mind to 
introduce something into the book under the 
title of Stanzas to the Memory of a quadruped 
Friend: but this plan was given up for the Tale 
as it now stands. Ccesar was merely the crea- 
ture of the poet's imagination, created for the 
purpose of holding chat with his favourite 
Luath. The first time Robert heard th{ 
spinet played upon was at the house of Dj 
Lawrie, then minister of the parish of Loudon 
now in Glasgow, having given up the parisl 
in favour of his son. Dr Lawrie has several 
daughters ; one of them played ; the father 
and mother led down the dance ; the rest ol 
the sisters, the brother, the poet, and the othei 
guests, mixed in it. It was a delightful family 
scene for our poet, then lately introduced to 
the world. His mind was roused to a poetic 
enthusiasm, and the stanzas, p. 125, were left 
in the room where he slept. It was to Dr 
Lawrie that Dr Blacklock's letter was address- 
ed, which my brother, in his letter to Dr 
Moore, mentions as the reason of his going to 
Edinburgh. 

When my father feued his little property near 
AUoway-Kirk, the wall of the church-yard had 
gone to ruin, and cattle bad free liberty ol 
pasture in it My father, with two or three 
other neighbours, joined in an application to 
the town council of Ayr, who were superior* 



APPENDIX. 



of the adjoining land, for liberty to rebuild it, 
and raised by subscription a sum for enclosing 
this ancient cemetery with a wall ; hence he 
came to consider it as his burial place, and we 
learned that reverence for it people generally 
have for the burial-place of their ancestors. 
My brother was living in Ellisland, when 
Captain Grose, on his peregrinations through 
Scotland, staid some time at Carse-house in 
the neighbourhood, with Captain Robert Rid- 
del of Glenriddel, a particular friend of my 
brother's. The Antiquarian and the Poet 
were " Unco pack and thick thegither." Rob- 
ert requested of Captain Grose, when he 
should come to Ayrshire, that he would make 
a drawing of Alloway-Kirk, as it was the 
burial-place of his father, and where he himself 
h d a sort of claim to lay down his bones when 
they should be no longer serviceable to him ; 
and added, by way of encouragement, that it 
was the scene of many a good story of witches 
and apparitions, of which he knew the Captain 
was very fond. The Captain agreed to the 
request, provided the poet would furnish a 
witch story, to be printed along with it. " Tarn 
o' Shanter" was produced on this occasion, and 
was first published in " Grose's Antiquities of 
Scotland." 

The poem is founded on a traditional story. 
The leading circumstances of a man riding 
home very late from Ayr, in a stormy night, 
his seeing a light in Alloway Kirk, his having 
the curiosity to look in, his seeing a dance of 
witches, with the devil playing on the bag-pipe 
to them, the scanty covering of one of the 
witches, which made him so far forget himself 
as to cry — " Weel loupen, short sark !" — with 
the melancholy catastrophe of the piece ; it is 
all a true story, that can be well attested by 
many respectable old people in that neighbour- 
hood. 

I do not at present recollect any circum- 
stances respecting the other poems, that could 
be at all interesting ; even some of those 
have mentioned, I am afraid, may appear tri- 
fling enough, but you will only make use of 
what appears to you of consequence. 

The following poems in the first Edinburgh 
edition were not in that published in Kilmar- 
nock. " Death and Dr Hornbook ; " The Brigs 
of Ayr ;" " The Calf;" (the poet had been with 
Mr Gavin Hamilton in the morning, who said 
jocularly to him when he was going to church, 
in allusion to the injunction of some parents 
to their children, that he must be sure to bring 
a note of the sermon at mid-day ; this address 
to the Reverend Gentleman on his text was 
accordingly produced ;) " The Ordination j" 
" The Address to the Unco Guid •," " Tarn 
Samson's Elegy;" "A Winter Night;" '< Stan- 
zas on the same occasion as the preceding 
Srayer ;" " Verses left at a Reverend Friend's 
ouse ;" "The first Psalm;" " Prayer under 
the pressure of violent anguish ; ' " The first 
six Verses of the ninetieth Psalm ;" " Verses 
to Miss Logan, with Beattie'* Pop,,.? : " « To 



' Address to Edinburgh ; n " Join 
Barleycorn ;" " When Guildtord Guid ;" 
" Behind yon bills where Stinchar flows ;" 
" Green grow the Rashes;" " Again rejoicing 
Nature sees ;" " The gloomy Night ;" " No 
Churchman am I." 

If you have never seen the first edition, it 
will, perhaps, not be amiss to transcribe the 
preface, that you may see the manner in which 
the Poet made his first awe-struck approach 
to the bar of public judgment 

Preface to the first Edition of Bums' Poems, 
published at Kilmarnock. 

" The following Trirles are not the produc- 
tion of the poet, who with all the advantages 
of learned art, and perhaps, amid the elegances 
and idlenesses of upper life, looks down foi 
a rural theme, with an eye to Theocritus or 
Virgil. To the author of this, these and other 
celebrated names, their countrymen, are, at 
least in their original language, " a fountain 
shut up, and a book sealed.'' Unacquainted 
with the necessary requisites for commencing 
poet by rule, he sings the sentiments and man 
ners, he felt and saw in himself and his rustic 
compeers around him, in his and their native 
language. Though a rhymer from his earliest 
years, at least from the earliest impulses of the 
softer passions, it was not till very lately that 
the applause, perhaps the partiality of friend- 
ship, awakened his vanity so far as to make 
him think any thing of his worth showing ; 
and none of the following works were compos- 
ed with a view to the press. To amuse him- 
self with the little creations of his own fancy, 
amid the toil and fatigues of a laborious life ; 
to transcribe the various feelings, the loves, 
the griefs, the hopes, the fears, in his own 
breast: to find some kind of counterpoise to 
the struggles of a world, always an alien scene, 
a task uncouth to the poetical mind — these 
were his motives for courting the muses, and 
in these he found poetry to be its own re- 
ward. " 

" Now that he appears in the public charac- 
ter of an author, he does it with fear and trem- 
bling. So dear is fame to the rhyming tribe, 
that even he, an obscure, nameless Bard, 
shrinks aghast at the thought of being branded 
as — an impertinent blockhead, obtruding his 
nonsense on the world; and, because he can 
make a shift to jingle a few doggerel Scotch 
rhymes together, looking upon himself as a 
poet of no small consequence forsooth I 

" It is an observation of that celebrated poet 
Shenstone, whose divine elegies do honour to 
our language, our nation, and oui species, that 
' Humility has depressed many a genius to a 
hermit, but never raised one to fame !' If any 
critic catches at the word " genius," the authoi 
tells him once for all, that he certainly looks 
upon himself as possessed of some poetic abili- 
ties, otherwise his publishing in the manner 
he has done, would be a manoeuvre below the 



244 



AtPENDIX. 



worst character, which he hopes his worst 
enemy will ever give him. But to the genius 
of a Ramsay, or the glorious dawnings of the 
poor unfortunate Fergusson, he, with equal un- 
affected sincerity, declares, that even in his 
highest pulse of vanity, he has not the most 
distant pretensions. These two justly admir- 
ed Scotch poets he has often had in his eye 
in the following pieces ; but rather with a 
view to kindle at their flame, than for servile 
imitation. 

" To his Subscribers the Author returns 
his most sincere thanks. Not the mercenary 
bow over a counter, but the heart- throbbing 
gratitude of the bard, conscious how much he 
owes to benevolence and friendship, for grati- 
fying him, if he deserves it, in that dearest wish 
of every poetic bosom — to be distinguished. 
He begs his readers, particularly the learned 
and the polite, who may honour him with a 
perusal, that they will make every allowance 
for education and circumstances of life ; but, 
if after a fair, candid, and impartial criticism, 
he shall stand convicted of dulness and non- 
sense, lets him be done by as he would in that 
case do by others — let him be condemned, 
without mercy, to contempt and oblivion." 



I am, dear Sir, 
Your most obedient humble servant, 

GILBERT BURNS. 
Da Curbeb, Liverpool. 

To this history of the poems which are con- 
tained in this volume, it may be added, that 
our author appears to have made little altera- 
tion in them after their original composition, 
except in some few instances, where consider- 
able additions have been introduced. After 
he had attracted the notice of the public by his 
first edition, various criticisms were offered 
hiin on the peculiarities of his style, as well as 
of his sentiments, and some of these which re- 
main among his manuscripts, are by persons of 
great taste and judgment. Some few of these 
criticisms he adopted, but the far greater part 
he rejected ; and, though something has by this 
means been lost in point of delicacy and cor- 
rectness, yet a deeper impression is left of the 
strength and originality of his genius. The 
firmness of our poet's character, arising from 
a just confidence in his own powers, may, in 
part, explain his tenaciousness of his peculiar 
expressions ; but it may be in some degree ac- 
counted for also, by the circumstances under 
which the poems were composed. Burns did 
not, like men of genius born under happier 
auspices, retire, in the moment of inspiration, 
to the silence and solitude of his study, and 
commit his verses to paper as they arranged 
themselves in his mind. Fortune did not af- 
ford him this indulgence. It was during the 
toils of dailv labour that his fancy exerted it- 



self; the muse, as he himself informs us, 
found him at the plough. In this situation, it 
was necessary to fix his verses on his memory, 
and it was often many days, nay weeks, after 
a poem was finished, before it was written 
down. During all this time, by frequent re- 
petition, the association between the thought 
and the expression was confirmed, and the im- 
partiality of taste with which written language 
is reviewed and retouched after it has faded on 
the memory, could not in such instances be 
exerted. The original manuscripts of many 
of his poems are preserved, and they differ in 
nothing material from the last printed edition. 
Some few variations may be noticed. 

In The Author's earnest Cry and Prayer. 
after the stanza, p. 93, beginning, 

Erskine, a spunkie Norland Billie, 

there appears, in his book of manuscripts, the 
following :— 

Thee, sodger Hugh, my watchman stented 

If Bardies e'er are represented -. 

I ken if that your sword were wanted 

Ye'd lend your hand, 
But when there's ought to say anent it, 

Ye're at a stand. 

Sodger Hugh is evidently the present Earl 
of Eglinton, then Colonel Montgomery oi 
Coilsfield, and representing in Parliament the 
county of Ayr. Why this was left out in 
printing, does not appear. The noble Earl 
will not be sorry to see this notice of him, 
familiar though it be, by a bard whose genius 
he admired, and whose fate he lamented. 

2. In The Address to the Deil, the seventh 
stanza, in page 49, ran originally thus : 

Lang syne in Eden's happy scene, 
When strappin' Adam's days w ere green, 
And Eve was like my bonnie Jean, 

My dearest part, 
A dancin', sweet, young, handsome quean, 

Wi' guiltless heart. 

3. In The Elegy on Poor Mailie, the second 
stanza, in page 105, beginning, 

She was nae get o' moorland tips, 

was, at first, as follows^ 

She was nae get o' runted rams, 

Wi, woo' like goats, and legs like trams 

She was the flower o' Fairlie lambs, 

A famous breed : 
Now Robin, greetin, chows the hams 

O' Mailie dead. 

It were a pity that the Fairlie lambs should 
lose the honour once intended them. 

4. But the chief variations are found in the 
poems introduced, for the first time, in the 
edition in two volumes small octavo, published 
in 1792. Of the poem written in Friars 
Carse Hermitage there are several editions, 



and one of these * has nothing in common with 
the printed poem but the four first lints 
The poem that is published, which was his 
Becond effort on the subject, received consider- 
able alterations in printing. 

Instead of the six lines beginning, 

Say man's true genuine estimate, 

in manuscript the following are inserted, 

Say the criterion of their fate, 
Th' important query of their state, 
Is not, art thou high or low ? 
Did thy fortune ebb or flow ? 
Wert thou cottager or kin^ r" 
Prince or peasant ? — no such thing. 

5. The Epistle to R. G. of F. Esq. that is, 
to R. Graham of Fintry, Esq. also underwent 
considerable alterations, as may be collected 
from the volume of Correspondence. This 
style of poetry was new to our poet, and 
though he was fitted to excel in it, it cost him 
more trouble than his Scottish poetry. On 
the contrary, 7am o' Shanter seems to have 
issued perfect from the author's brain. The 
only considerable alteration made on reflection, 
is the omission of four lines, whieh had been 
inserted after the poem was finished, at the 
end of the dreadful catalogue of the articles 
found on the " haly table," and which appeared 
in the first edition of the poem, printed sepa- 
rately. They came after the eighteenth line, 
page 147, 

Which even to name would be unlawfu', 

and are as follows : 



• riiia la given in the Corrosponderxt.. 



Three lawyers' tongues turn'd inside out, 
Wi' lies seam'd like a beggar's clout, 
And priests' hearts, rotten, black as muck; 
Lay stinking vile in every neuk. 

These lines, which, independent of other ob- 
jections, interrupt and destroy the emotions 
of terror which the preceding description had 
excited, were very properly left out of the 
printed collection, by the advice of Mr Fraser 
Tytler ; to which Burns seems to have paid 
some deference. 

6. The Address to the Shade of Thomson, 
page 148, began in the first manuscript copy in 
the following manner : 

While cold-eyed Spring, a virgin coy, 

Unfolds her verdant mantle sweet ; 
Or pranks the sod in frolic joy, 

A carpet for her youthful feet : 
While Summer, with a matron's grace, 

Walks stately in the cooling shade, 
And oft delighted loves to trace 

The progress of the spiky blade : 
While Autumn, benefactor kind, 

With age's hoary honours clad, 
Surveys, with self-approving mind, 

Each creature on his bounty fee, &c. 

By the alteration in the printed poem, it may 
be questioned whether the poetry is much im- 
proved ; the poet however has found means to 
introduce the shades of Dryburgh, the residence 
of the Earl of Buchan, at whose request these 
verses were written. 

These observations might be extended, but 
what are already offered will satisfy curiosity, 
and there is nothing of any importance tbet 
could be added. 



GLOSSARY. 



The ch and yh have always the guttural sound. The sound of the English diphthong oo, is 
commonly spelled ou. The French it, a sound which often occurs in the Scottish language, 
is marked oo, or ui. The a in genuine Scottish words, except when forming a diphthong, 01 
followed by an e mute after a single consonant, sounds generally like the broad English a in 
wall. The Scottish diphthong <e, always, and ea, very often, sound like the French e mas- 
culine. The Scottish diphthong a/, sounds like the Latin ei. 



A. 

A', All. 

Aback, away, aloof. 

\beigh, at a shy distance. 

Aboon, above, up. 

Abread, abroad, in sight. 

Abreed, in breadth. 

Addle, putrid water, &c. 

Ae, one. 

Aff, off; Affloof, unpremeditated 

Afore, before. 

Aft, oft. 

Aften, often. 

Agley, off the right line ; wrong. 

Aibhns, perhaps. 

Ain, own. 

Airle-penny, Airles, earnest money. 

Airn, iron. 

Aith, an oath 

Aits, oats. 

Aiver, an old horse. 

Aizle, a hot cinder. 

Alake, alas. 

Alane, alone. 

Akwart, awkward. 

Amaist, almost. 

Amang, among. 

An' and ; if. 

Ance, once. 

Ane, one ; and. 

Anent, over against. 

Anither, another. 

Ase, ashes. 

Asklent, asquint ; aslant. 

Asteer, abroad ; stirring. 

Athart, athwart. 

Aught, possession ; as, In a' my aught, in all 
my possession. 

Auld lang syne, olden time, days of other 
years. 

Auld, old. 

Auldfarran, or, auld farrant, sagacious, cun- 
ning, prudent. 



Ava, at all. 

Awa', away. 

Awfu', awful. 

Awn ? the beard of barley, oats, &c. 

Awnie, bearded. 

Ayont, beyond. 

B. 

Ba\ Ball. 

Backets, ash boards. 

Backlins, coming ; coming back, returning. 

Back, returning. 

Bad, did bid. 

Baide, endured, did stay. 

Baggie, the belly. 

Bainie, having large bones, stout. 

Bairn, a child. 

Bairntime, a family of children, a brood. 

Baith, both. 

Ban, to swear. 

Bane, bone. 

Bang, to beat ; to strive. 

Bardie, diminutive of bard. 

Barefit, barefooted. 

Barmie, of, or like barm. 

Batch, a crew, a gang. 

Batts, bots. 

Baudrons, a cat 

Bauld, bold. 

Bawk, bank. 

Baws'nt, having a white stripe down the face 

Be, to let be ; to give over ; to cease. 

Bear, barley. 

Beastie, diminutive of beast. 

Beet, to add fuel to fire. 

Beld, bald. 

Belyve, by and by. 

Bon, into the spence or parlour ; a spence. 

Benlomond, a noted mountain in Dumbarton 

shire. 
Bethankit, grace after meat. 
Beuk, a book. 

Bicker, a kind of wooden dish ; a short race. 
Bie or Bield, shelter. 



24S SLOS 

Bien, wealthy, plentiful. 

Big, to build. 

Biggin, building; a house. 

Biggit, built. 

Bill, a bull. 

Billie, a brother ; a young fellow. 

Bing, a heap of grain, potatoes, &c. 

Birk, birch. 

Birken-shaw, Birchen-wood-shaw, a small 
wood. 

Birkie, a clever fellow. 

Birring, the noise of partridges, &c when they 
spring. 

Bit, crisis, nick of time. 

Bizz, a bustle, to buzz. 

Blastie, a shrivelled dwarf; a term of con- 
tempt. 

Blastit, blasted. 

Blate, bashful, sheepish. 

Blather, bladder. 

Bladd, a flat piece any thing ; to slap. 

Blaw, to blow, to boast. 

Bleerit, bleared, sore with rheum. 

Bleert and blin', bleared and blind. 

Bleezing, blazing. 

Blellum, an idle talking fellow. 

Blether, to talk idly; nonsense, 

Bleth'rin', talking idly. 

Blink, a little while ; a smiling look ; to look 
kindly ; to shine by tits. 

Blinker, a term of contempt. 

Blinkin, smirking. 

Blue-gown, one of those beggars who get an- 
nually, on the king's birth-day, a blue cloak 
or gown, with a badge. 

Blind, blood. 

Bluntie, a sniveller, a stupid person. 

Blype, a shred, a large piece. 

Bock, to vomit, to gush intermittently, 

Bocked, gushed, vomited. 

Bodle, a small gold coin. 

Bogles, spirits, hobgoblins. 

Bonnie or bonny, handsome, beautiful. 

Bonnock, a kind of thick cake of bread, p 
small jannock, or loaf made of oat meal. 

Boord, a board. 

Boortree, the shrub elder; planted much of 
old in hedges of barn-yards, &c. 

Boos*:, behaved, must needs. 

Bore, a hole in the wall. 

Botch, an angry tumour. 

Bousing, drinking. 

Bow-kail, cabbage. 

Bowt, bended, crooked. 

Brackens, fern. 

Brae, a declivity ; a precipice 
hill. 

Braid, broad. 

Braindg't, reeled forward. 

Braik, a kind of harrow. 

Biaindge, to run rashly forward. 

Brak, broke, made insolvent. 

Branks, a kind of wooden curb for horses. 

Brash, a sudden illness. 

Brnts, coarse clothes, rags, &c. 

Brattle, a short race ; hurry ; fury. 



Braw, fine, handsome. 

Brawly, or brawlie, very well ; finely ; heartily 

Braxie, a morbid sheep. 

Breastie, diminutive of breast. 

Breastit, did spring up or forward. 

Breckan, fern 

Breef, an inv Inerable or irresistible spell. 

Breeks, breeches. 

Brent, smooth. 

Brewin', brewing. 

Brie, juice, liquid. 

Brig, a bridge. 

Brunstane, brimstone. 

Brisket, the breast, the bosom. 

Bnther, a brother. 

Brock, a badger. 

Brogue, a hum ; a trick. 

Broo, broth ; a trick. 

Broose, broth ; a race at country weddings. 

who shall first reach the bridegroom's house 

on returning from church. 
Browster-wives, ale-house wives. 
Brugh, a burgh. 
Bruilzie, a broil, a combustion. 
Brunt, did burn, burnt, 
Brust, to burst ; burst. 
Buchan-bullers, the boiling of the sea among 

the rocks of Buchan. 
Buckskin, an inhabitant of Virginia. 
Bught, a pen. 
Bughtin-time, the time of collecting the sheep 

in the pens to be milked. 
Buirdly, stout made ; broad made. 
Bum-clock, a humming beetle that flies in the 

summer evenings. 
Bumming, humming as bees. 
Bummle, to blunder. 
Bummler, a blunderer. 
Bunker, a window-seat. 
Burdies, diminutive of birds. 
Bure, did bear. 
Burn, water a rivulet. 

Bumewin, i.e. burn the wind, a blacksmith. 
Burnie, diminutive of burn. 
Buskie, bushy. 
Buskit, dressed. 
Busks, dresses. 
Bussle, a bustle ; to bustle. 
Buss, shelter. 
But, bot, with ; without. 
But an' ben, the country kitchen and parlour. 
By himsel, lunatic, distracted.. 
Byke, a bee-hive. 
Byre, a cow-stable ; a sheep-pen. 



CA', to call, to name ; to drive. 

Ca't, or ca'd, called, driven •, calved. 

Cadger, a carrier. 

Cadie, or Caddie, a person ; a young fellow 

Caff, chaff. 

Caird, a tinker. 

Cairn, a loose heap of stones. 

Calf-ward, a small enclosure for calves. 

Callan, a boy. 



Caller, fresh ; sound ; refreshing. 

Canie, or cannie, gentle, mild ; dexterous. 

Cannilie, dexterously ; gently. 

Can tie, or canty, cheerful, merry. 

Cantraip, a charm, a spell. 

Cape-stane, cope-stone ; key-stone. 

Careerin, cheerfully. 

Carl, an old man. 

Carlin, a stout old woman. 

Cartes, cards. 

Caudron, a caldron. 

Cauk and keel, chalk and red clay. 

Cauld, cold. 

Caup. a wooden drinking vessel. 

Cesses, taxes. 

Chanter, a part of a bagpipe. 

Chap, a person, a fellow ; a blow. 

Chaup, a stroke, a blow. 

Cheekit, cheeked. 

Cheep, a chirp •, to chirp. 

Chiel, or cheel, a young fellow. 

Chimla, or chimlie, a fire-grate, a fire place. 

Chimla-lug. the fireside. 

Chittering, shivering, trembling. 

Chockin, choking 

Chow, to chew : Cheek for chow, side by side. 

Chuffie, fat-faced. 

Clachan, a small village about a church ; a hamlet. 

Claise, or claes, clothes. 

Claith, cloth. 

Claithing, clothing. 

Claivers, nonsense ; not speaking sense. 

Clap, clapper of a mill. 

Clarkit, wrote. 

Clash, an idle tale, the story of the day. 

Clatter, to tell idle stories ; an idle story. 

Claught, snatched at, laid hold of. 

Claut, to clean ; to scrape. 

Clauted, scraped. 

Clavers, idle stories. 

Claw, to scratch. 

Cleed, to clothe. 

Cleeds, clothes. 

Cleekit, having caught. 

Clinkin, jerking ; clinking. 

Clinkumbell, he who rings the church-bell. 

Clips, shears. 

Clishmaclaver, idle conversation. 

Clock, to hatch ; a beetle. 

Clockin, hatching. 

Cloot, the hoof of a cow, sheep, &c. 

Clootie, an old name for the Devil. 

Clour, a bump or swelling after a blow. 

Cluds, clouds. 

Coaxin, wheedling. 

Coble, a fishing boat. 

Cockernony, a lock of hair tied upon a girl's 

head ; a cap. 
Coft, bought. 
Cog, a wooden dish. 
Coggie, diminutive of cog. 
Coila, from Kyle, a district of Ayrshire ; so 

called, saith tradition, from Coil, or Coilus, 

a Pictish monarch. 
Collie, a general and sometimes a particular 

name for country curs. 



3ARY. 240 

Collieshangie, quarrelling, an uproar. 

Com maun, command. 

Cood, the cud. 

Coof, a blockhead ; a ninny. 

Cookit, appeared and disappeared by fits. 

Coost, did cast. 

Coot, the ancle or foot. 

Cootie, a wooden kitchen dish . — also, those 
fowls whose legs are clad with feathers are 
said to be cootie. 

Corbies, a species of the crow. 

Core, corps ; party ; clan. 

Corn't, fed with oats. 

Cotter, the inhabitant of a cot-house, or cot- 
tager. 

Couthie, kind, loving. 

Cove, a cave. 

Cowe, to terrify ; to keep under, to lop 
fright ; a branch of furze, broom, &c. 

Cowp, to barter ; to tumble over; a gang. 

Cowpit, tumbled. 

Cowrin, cowering. 

Cowt, a colt. 

Cozie, snug. 

Cozily, snugly. 

Crabbit, crabbed, fretful. 

Crack, conversation ; to converse. 

Crackin, conversing. 

Craft, or croft, a field near a house (in old 
husbandry). 

Craiks, cries or calls incessantly ; a bird. 

Crambo-clink, or crambo-jingle, rhymes, dog- 
grel verses. 

Crank, the noise of an ungreased wheel. 

Crankous, fretful, captious. 

Crameuch, the hoar frost. 

Crap, a crop ; to crop. 

Craw, a crow of a cock ; a rook. 

Creel, a basket ; to have one's wits in a creel, 
to be crazed ; to be fascinated. 

Creepie-stool, the same as cutty-stool. 

Creeshie, greasy. 

Crood, or croud, to coo as a dove. 

Croon, a hollow and continued moan ; to make 
a noise like the continued roar of a bull ; to 
bum a tune. 

Crooning, humming. 

Crouchie, crook-backed. 

Croose, cheerful ; courageous. 

Crousely, cheerfully; courageously. 

Crowdie, a composition of oat-meal and boil- 
ed water, sometimes from the broth of beef, 
mutton, &c. 

Crowdie-time, breakfast time. 

Crowlin, crawling. 

Crummock, a cow with crooked horns. 

Crump, hard and brittle ; spoken of bread. 

Crunt, a blow on the head with a cudgel. 

Cuif, a blockhead, a ninny. 

Cummock, a short staff with a crooked head. 

Curchie, a courtesy. 

Curler, a player at a game on the ice, prac- 
tised in Scotland, called curling. 

Curlie, curled, whose hair falls naturally in 
ringlets. 

Curling, a well known game on the ice. 



250 



GLOSSARY. 



Curmurring, murmuring ; a slight rumbling 

noise. 
Curpin, the crupper. 
Cushat, the dove, or wood-pigeon. 
Cutty, short ; a spoon broken in the middle. 
Cutty-stool, the stool of repentance. 

D. 

DADDIE, a father. 

Daffin, merriment ; foolishness. 

Daft, merry, giddy ; foolish. 

Daimen, rare, now and then ; daimen-icker, 

an ear of corn now and then. 
Dainty, pleasant, good humoured, agreeable. 
Daise, daez, to stupify. 
Dales, plains, valleys, 
Darklins, darkling. 
Daud, to thrash, to abus* . 
Daur, to dare. 
Daurt, dared. 

Daurg, or daurk, a day's labour. 
Davoc, David. 
Dawd, a large piece. 
Dawtit, or dawtet, fondled, c 
Dearies, diminutive of dears. 
Dearthfu', dear. 
Deave, to deafen. 

Deil-ma-eare ! no matter ! for all that ! 
Deleerit, delirious. 
Descrive, to describe. 
Dight, to wipe ; to clean corn from chaff. 
Dight, cleaned from chaff. 
Ding, to worst, to push. 
Dink, neat, tidy, trim. 
Dinna, do not. 

Dirl, a slight tremulous stroke or pain. 
Dizen, or dizz'n, a dozen. 
Doited, stupified, hebetated. 
Dolt, stupified, crazed. 
Donsie, unlucky. 
Dool, sorrow ; to sing dool, to lament, to 

mourn. 
Doos, doves. 
Dorty, saucy, nice. 

Douce, or douse, sober, wise, prudent. 
Doucely, soberly, prudently. 
Dought, was or were able. 
Doup, backside. 

Doup-skelper, one that strikes the tail. 
Dour and din, sullen and sallow. 
Doure, stout, durable ; sullen, stubborn. 
Dow, am or are able, can. 
Dowff, pithless, wanting force. 
Dowie, worn with grief, fatigue, &c. half 

asleep. 
Downa, am or are not able, cannot. 
Doylt, stupid. 

Dozent, stupified, impotent. 
Drap, a drop ; to drop. 
Draigle, to soil by trailing, to draggle among 

wet, &c 
Drapping, dropping. 

Draunting, drawling •, of a slow enunciation. 
Dreep, to ooze, to drop. 
Dreigh, tedious, long about it. 



Dribble, drizzling ; slavet. 

Drift, a drove. 

Droddum, the breech. 

Drone, part of a bagpipe. 

Droop-rumpl't, that droops at the cropper. 

Droukit, wet. 

Drounting, drawling. 

Drouth, thirst, drought. 

Drucken, drunken. 

Drumly, muddy. 

Drummock, meal and water mixed in a raw 

state. 
Drunt, pet, sour humour. 
Dub, a small pond. 
Duds, rags, clothes. 
Duddie, ragged. 

Dung, worsted ; pushed, driven. 
Dunted, beaten, boxed. 
Dush, to push as a ram, &c. 
Dusht, pushed by a ram, ox, &c 

£. 

E'E, the eye. 

Een, the eyes. 

E'ening, evening. 

Eerie, frighted, dreading spirits. 

Eild, old age. 

Elbuck, the elbow. 

Eldritch, ghastly, frightful. 

Eller, an elder, or church officer. 

En', end. 

Enbrugh, Edinburgh. 

Eneugh, enough. 

Especial, especially. 

Ettle, to try, to attempt 

Eydent, diligent. 

F. 

FA', fall ; lot ; to fall. 

Fa's, does fall ; water-falls. 

Faddom't, fathomed. 

Fae, a foe. 

Faem, foam. 

Faiket, unknown. 

Fairin, a fairing ; a present. 

Fallow, fellow. 

Fand, did find. 

Farl, a cake of oaten bread, &c. 

Fash, trouble, care ; to trouble, to care for 

Fasht, troubled. 

Fasteren-e'en, Fasten's Even. 

Fauld, a fold ; to fold. 

Faulding, folding. 

Faut, fault. 

Faute, want, lack. 

Fawsont, decent, seemly. 

Feal, a field ; smooth. 

Fearfu', frightful. 

Feart, frighted. 

Feat, neat, spruce. 

Fecht, to fight. 

Fechtin, fighting. 

Feck, many, plenty. 

Fecket, an under wai=tcoat with sleeves. 



GLOSSARY. 



251 



Feckfu', large, brawny, stout. 

Feckless, puny, weak, silly. 

Feckly, weakly. 

Feg, a fig. 

Feide, feud, enmity. 

Feirrie, stout, vigorous, healthy. 

Fell, keen, biting; the flesh immediately un- 
der the skin ; a field pretty level, on the side 
or top of a hill. 

Fen, successful struggle ; fight. 

Fend, to live comfortably. 

Ferlie, or ferley, to wonder ; a wonder ; a term 
of contempt. 

Fetch, to pull by fits. 

Fetch't, pulled intermittently. 

Fidge, to fidget. 

Fiel, soft, smooth. 

Fient, fiend, a petty oath. 

Fier, sound, healthy ; a brother ; a friend. 

Fissle, to make a rustling noise ; to fidget ; 
a bustle. 

Fit, a foot. 

Fittie-lan', the nearer norse of the hindmost 
pair in the plough. 

Fizz, to make a hissing noise, like fermenta- 
tion. 

Flainen, flannel. 

Fleech, to supplicate in a flattering manner. 

Fleech'd, supplicated. 

Fleechin, supplicating. 

Fleesh, a fleece. 

Fleg, a kick, a random stroke. 

Flether, to decoy by fair words. 

Fletherin, flattering. 

Fley, to scare, to frighten. 

Flichter, to flutter, as young nestlings when 
their dam approaches. 

Flinders, shreds, broken pieces, splinters. 

Flinging-tree, a piece of timber hung by way 
of partition between two horses in a stable : 
a flail. 

Flisk, to fret at the yoke. Flisket, fretted. 

Flitter, to vibrate like the wings of small 
birds. 

Flittering, fluttering, vibrating. 

Flunkie, a servant in livery. 

Fodgel, squat and plump. 

Foord, a ford. 

Forbears, forefathers. 

Forbye, besides. 

Forfairn, distressed ; worn out, jaded. 

Forfoughten, fatigued. 

Forgather, to meet, to encounter with 

Forgie, to forgive. 

Forjesket, jaded with fatigue. 
Fother, fodder. 

Fou, full; drunk. 

Foughten, troubled, harassed. 

Fouth, plenty, enough, or more than enough. 

Fow, a bushel, &c. ; also a pitch-fork. 

Frae, from ; off. [with. 

Frammit, strange, estranged from, at enmity 

Freath, froth. 

Frien', friend. 

Fu', full. 

Fud, the scut, or tail of the hare, cony, & 



FufF, to blow intermittently. 

FufFt, did blow. 

Funnie, full of merriment 

Fur, a furrow. 

Furm, a form, bench. 

Fyke, trifling cares ; to piddle, to be in a fuss 

about trifles. 
Fyle, to soil, to dirty. 
Fyl't. soiled, dirtied. 



GAB, the mouth ; to speak boldly, or pertly 

Gaberlunzie, an old man. 

Gadsman, a ploughboy, the boy that drives the 

horses in the plough. 
Gae, to go ; gaed, went ; gaen, or gane, gone ; 

gaun, going. 
Gaet, or gate, way, manner; road. 
Gairs, triangular pieces of cloth sewed on the 

bottom of a gown, &c. 
Gang, to go, to walk. 
Gar, to make, to force to. 
Gar't, forced to. 
Garten, a garter. 

Gash, wise, sagacious ; talkative ; to converse. 
Gashin, conversing. 
Gaucy, jolly, large. 
Gaud, a plough. 

Gear, riches ; goods of any kind. 
Geek, to toss the head in wantonness or scorn. 
Ged, a pike. 

Gentles, great folks, gentry. 
Genty, elegantly formed, neat. 
Geordie, a guinea. 
Get, a child, a young one. 
Ghaist, a ghost. 

Gie, to give ; gied, gave $ gien, given. 
Giftie, diminutive of gift. 
Giglets, playful girls. 
Gillie, diminutive of gill. 
Gilpey, a half grown, half informed boy 01 

girl, a romping lad, a hoiden. 
Gimmer, a ewe from one to two years old, 
Gin, if; against. 
Gipsey, a young girl. 
Girn, to grin, to twist the features in rage, 

agony, &c. 
Girning, grinning. 
Gizz, a periwig. 
Glaiket, inattentive, foolish. 
Glaive, a sword. 

Gawky, half-witted, foolish, romping. 
Glaizie, glittering ; smooth like glass. 
Glaum, to snatch greedily. 
Glaum'd, aimed, snatched. 
Gleck, sharp, ready. 
Gleg, sharp, ready. 
Gleib, glebe. 

Glen, a dale, a deep valley. 
Gley, a squint ; to squint ; a-gley, off at a 

side, wrong. 
Glib-gabbet, smooth and ready in speech. 
Glint, to peep. 
Glinted, peeped. 
Glintin, peeping. 



252 



GLOSSARY. 



Gloamin, the twilight. 

Glowr, to stare, to look ; a stare, a look. 

Glowred, looked, stared. 

Glunsti, a frown, a sour look. 

Goavan, looking round with a strange, inquir- 
ing gaze ; staring stupidly. 

Gowan, the flower of the wild daisy, hawk- 
weed, &c. 

Gowany, daisied, abounding with daisies. 

Gowd, gold. 

GowiT, the game of Golf ; to strike as the bat 
does the ball at golf. 

Gowff'd, struck. 

Gowk, a cuckoo ; a term of contempt. 

Gowl, to howl. 

Grane, or grain, a groan ; to groan. 

Grain'd and grunted, groaned and grunted. 

Graining, groaning. 

Graip, a pronged instrument for cleaning 
stables. 

Graith, accoutrements, furniture, dress, gear. 

Grannie, grandmother. 

Grape, to grope. 

Grapit, groped. 

Grat, wept, shed tears. 

Great, intimate, familiar. 

Gree, to' agree ; to bear the gree, to be decid- 
edly victor. 

Gree't, agreed. 

Greet, to shed tears, to weep. 

Greetin, crying, weeping. 

Grippet, catched, seized. 

Groat, to get the whistle of one's groat, to 
play a losing game. 

Grousome, loathsomely grim. 

Grozet, a gooseberry. 

Grurnph, a grunt; to grunt. 

Grumphie, a sow. 

Grun', ground. 

Grunstane, a grindstone. 

Gruntle, the phiz ; a grunting noise. 

Grunzie, mouth. 

Grushie, thick; of thriving growth. 

Gude, the Supreme Being ; good. 

Guid, good. 

Guid -morning, good morrow. 

Guid-e'en, good evening. 

Guidman and guidwife, the master and mis- 
tress of the house ; young guidman, a man 
newly married. 

Guid-willie, liberal ; cordial. 

Guidfather, guidmother, father-in-law, aiul 
mother-in-law. 

Gully, or gullie, a large knife. 

Gumlie, muddy. 

Gusty, tasteful. 

H, 

HA', hall. 

Ha'-Bible, the great bible that lies in the hall. 
Hae, to have. 
Haen, had, the participle. 
Haet, fient haet, a petty oath of negation ; no- 
thing. 
Haflet, the temple, the side of the head. 



Hafflins, nearly half, partly. 

Hag, a scar, or gulf in mosses, and moors. 

Haggis, a kind of pudding boiled in the sto- 
mach of a cow or sheep. 

Hain, to spare, to save. 

Hain'd, spared. 

Hairst, harvest. 

Haith, a petty oath. 

Haivers, nonsense, speaking without thought. 

Hal', or hald, an abiding place. 

Hale, whole, tight, healthy. 

Haly, holy. 

Harne, home. 

Hallun, a particular partition-wall in a cot- 
tage, or more properly a seat of turf at the 
outside. 

Hallowmas, Hallow-eve, the 31st of October. 

Hamely, homely, affable. 

Han', or haun', hand. 

Hap, an outer garment, mantle, plaid, &c. to 
wrap, to cover ; to hop. 

Happer, a hopper. 

Happing, hopping. 

Hap step an' loup, hop skip and leap. 

Harkit, hearkened. 

Harn, very coarse linen. 

Hash, a fellow that neither knows how to 
dress nor act with propriety. 

Hastit, hastened. 

Haud, to hold. 

Haughs, low lying, rich lands ; valleys. 

Haurl, to drag; to peel. 

Haurlin, peeling. 

Haverel, a half witted person ; half witted. 

Havins, good manners, decorum, good sense. 

Hawkie, a cow, properly one with a white 
face. 

Heapit, heaped. 

Healsome, healthful, wholesome. 

Hearse, hoarse. 

Hear't, hear it. 

Heather, heath. 

Hech ! oh ! strange ! 

Hecht, promised ; to foretell something thai 
is to be got or given; foretold; the thinp 
foretold ; offered. 

Heckle, a board, in which are fixed a numbei 
of sharp pins, used in dressing hemp, flax, 
&c. 

Heeze, to elevate, to raise. 

Helm, the rudder or helm. 

Herd, to tend flocks ; one who tends flocks. 

Herrin, a herring. 

Herry, to plunder ; most properly to plundej 
birds' nests. 

Herryment, plunderine:, devastation. 

Hersel, herself; also a herd of cattle, of ahj 
sort. 

Het, hot 

Heugh, a crag, a coalpit. 

Hilch, a hobble ; to halt. 

Hilchin, halting. 

Himsel, himself. 

Hiney, honey. 

Hing, to rang. 

Hirple, tr walk crazily. to creep. 



Hissel, so many cattle as one person can at- 
tend. 

Hastie, dry ; chapped •, barren. 

Hitch, a loop, a knot. 

Hizzie, a hussy, a young girl. 

Hoddin, the motion of a sage countryman rid- 
ing on a cart-horse ; humble. 

Hog-score, a kind of distance line, in curling, 
drawn across the rink. 

Hog-shouther, a kind of horse play, by justling 
with the shoulder j tojustle. 

Hool, outer skin or case, a nut shell ; a peas- 
cod. 

Hoolie, slowly, leisurely. 

Hoolie ! take leisure, stop. 

Hoord, a hoard ; to hoard. 

Hoordit, hoarded. 

Horn, a spoon made of born. 

Hornie, one of the many names of the devil. 

Host, or hoast, to cough ; a cough. 

Hostin, coughing. 

Hosts coughs. 

Hotch'd, turn'd topsyturvy ; blended, mixed. 

Houghmagandie, fornication. 

Houlet, an owl. 

Housie, diminutive of house. 

Hove, to heave, to swell. 

Hoved, heaved, swelled. 

Howdie, a midwife. 

Howe, hollow ; a hollow or dell. 

Howebackit, sunk in the back, spoken of a 
horse, &c. 

Howff, a tippling house ; a house of resort. 

Howk, to dig. 

Howkit, digged. 

Howkin, digging. 

Howlet, an owL 

Hoy, to urge. 

Hoy't, urged. 

Hoyse, to pull upwards. 

Hoyte, to amble crazily. 

Hughoc, diminutive of Hugh. 

Hurcheon, a hedgehog. 

Hurdies, the loins ; the crupper. 

Hushion, a cushion. 

I. 

1% in. 

Icker, an ear of corn. 

Ier-oe, a great-grandchild. 

Hk, or ilka, each, every. 

Hl-willie, ill-natured, malicious, niggardly. 

Ingine, genius, ingenuity. 

Ingle, tire ; fire-place. 

Ise, I shall or will. 

Ither, other ; one another. 



J AD, jade ; also a familiar term among coun- 
try folks for a giddy young girl. 
Jauk, to dally, to trifle. 
Jaukin, trifling, dallying. 
Jaup, a jerk of water ; to jerk as agitated 



tARY 253 

Jaw, coarse raillery ; to pour out ; to shut, to 
jerk as water. 

Jerkinet, a jerkin, or short gown. 

Jillet, a jilt, a giddy girl. 

Jimp, to jump ; slender in the waist ; band- 
some. 

Jimps, easy stays. 

Jink, to dodge, to turn a corner; a sudden 
turning ; a corner. 

Jinker, that turns quickly; a gay sprightly 
girl ; a wag. 

Jinkin, dodging. 

Jirk, a jerk. 

Jocteleg, a kind of knife. 

Jouk, to stoop, to bow the head. 

Jow, to jow, a verb which includes both the 
swinging motion and pealing sound of a 
large bell. 

Jundie, tojustle. 

K. 

KAE, a daw. 

Kail, colewort ; a kind of broth. 

Kail-runt, the stem of colewort. 

Kain, fowls, &c. paid as rent by a farmer. 

Kebbuck, a cheese. 

Keckle, to giggle ; to titter. 

Keek, a peep, to peep 

Kelpies, a sort of mischievous spirits, said to 

haunt fords and ferries at night, especially 

in storms. 
Ken, to know ; kend or kenn'd, knew. 
Kennin, a small matter. 
Kenspeckle, well known, easily known. 
Ket, matted, hairy ; a fleece of wool. 
Kilt, to truss up the clothes. 
Kimmer, a young girl, a gossip. 
Kin, kindred ; kin', kind, adj. 
King's-hood, a certain part of the entrails of 

an ox, &c. 
Kintra, country. 
Kintra Cooser, country stallion. 
Kirn, the harvest supper ; a churn. 
Kirsen, to christen, or baptize. 
Kist, a chest ; a shop counter. 
Kitchen, any thing that eats with bread; to 

serve for soup, gravy, &c. 
Kith, kindred. 

Kittle, to tickle ; ticklish ; lively, apt. 
Kittlin, a young cat. 
Kiuttle, to cuddle. 
Kiuttlin, cuddling. 

Knaggie, like knags, or points of rocks. 
Knap, to strike smartly, a smart blow. 
Knappin-hammer, a hammer for breaking 

stones. 
Knowe, a small round hillock. 
Knurl, a dwarf. 
Kye, cows. 

Kyle, a district in Ayrshire. 
Kyte, the belly. 
Kythe, to discover ; to show one's self. 



254 



CADDIE, diminutive of lad. 
Laggen, the angle between the side and bot- 
tom of a wooden dish. 
Laigh, low. 

Lairing, wading, and sinking in snow, mud, &c. 
Laith, loath. 

Laithfu', bashful, sheepish. 
Lallans, the Scottish dialect of the English 



Lambie, diminutive of lamb. 

Lampit, a kind of shell-fish, a limpit 

Lan', land ; estate. 

Lane, lone; my lane, thy lane, &c myself 
alone, &c. 

Lanely, lonely. 

Lang, long ; To think lang, to long, to weary. 

Lap, did leap. 

Lave, the rest, the remainder, the others. 

Laverock, the lark. 

Lawin, shot, reckoning, bill. 

Lawlan, lowland. 

Lea'e, to leave. 

Leal, loyal, true, faithful. 

Lea-rig, grassy ridge. 

Lear, (pronounced lare), learning. 

Lee-lang, live-long. 

Leesome, pleasant. 

Leeze-me, a phrase of congratulatory endear- 
ment; I am happy in thee, or proud of 
thee. 

Leister, a three-prong'd dart for striking fish. 

Leugh, did laugh. 

Leuk, a look ; to look. 

Libbet, gelded. 

Lift, the sky. 

Lightly, sneeringly ; to sneer at. 

Lilt, a ballad ; a tune ; to sing. 

Limmer, a kept mistress, a strumpet. 

Limp't, limped, hobbled. 

Link, to trip along. 

Linkin, tripping. 

Linn, a waterfall ; a precipice. 

Lint, flax ; Lint i' the bell, flax in flower. 

Lintwhite, a linnet. 

Loan, or loanin, the place of milking. 

Loof, the palm of the hand. 

Loot, did let. 

Looves, plural of loof. 

Loun, a fellow, a ragamuffin ; a woman of 
easy virtue. 

Loup, jump, leap. 

Lowe, a flame. 

Lowin, flaming. 

Lowrie, abbreviation of Lawrence. 

Lowse, to loose. 

Lows'd, loosed. 

Lug, the ear ; a handle. 

Lugget, having a handle. 

Luggie, a small wooden dish with a handle. 

Lum, the chimney. 

Lunch, a large piece of cheese, flesh, &c. 

Lunt, a column of smoke ; to smoke 

Luntin, smoking. 

Lyart. of a mix»d colour, gray. 



M. 

MAE, more. 

Mair, more. 

Maist, most, almost. 

Maistly, mostly. 

Mak, to make. 

Makin, making. 

Mailen, a farm. 

Mallie, Molly. 

Mang, among. 

Manse, the parsonage house, where the minu- 
ter lives. 

Manteele, a mantle. 

Mark, marks. (This and several other nouns 
which in English require an s, to form the 
plural, are in Scotch, like the words sheep, 
deer, the same in both numbers.) 

Marled, variegated ; spotted. 

Mar's year, the year 1715. 

Mashlum, meslin, mixed corn. 

Mask, to mash, as malt, &c. 

Maskin-pat, a tea-pot. 

Maud, maad, a plaid worn by shepherds, &c. 

Maukin, a hare. 

Maun, must. 

Mavis, the thrush. 

Maw, to mow. 

Mawin, mowing. 

Meere, a mare 

Meikle, meickle, much. 

Melancholious, mournful. 

Melder, corn, or grain of any kind, sent to 
the mill to be ground. 

Mell, to meddle. Also a mallet for pounding 
barley in a stone trough. 

Melvie, to soil with meal. 

Men', to mend. 

Mense, good manners, decorum 

Menseless, ill-bred, rude, impudent. 

Messin, a small dog, 

Midden, a dunghill. 

Midden.-hole, a gutter at the bottom of a dung- 
hill. 

Mim, prim, affectedly meek. 

Min', mind ; resemblance 

Mind't, mind it ; resolved, intending. 

Minnie, mother, dam. 

Mirk, mirkest, dark, darkest. 

Misca', to abuse, to call names. 

Misca'd, abused. 

Mislear'd, mischievous, unmannerly. 

Misteuk, mistook. 

Mither, a mother. 

Mixtie-maxtie, confusedly mixed. 

Moistify, to moisten. 

Mony, or monie, many. 

Mools, dust, earth, the earth of the grave ; Tc 
rake i' the mools ; to lay in the dust. 

Moop, to nibble as a sheep. 

Moorlan', of or belonging to moors. 

Morn, the next day, to-morrow 

Mou, the mouth. 

Moudiwort, a mole. 

Mousie, diminutive of mouse. 

Muckle, or mickle, great, big, much. 



Musie, diminutive of muse. 

Muslin-kail, broth, composed simply of water, 

shelled barley, and greens. 
Mutchkin, an English pint. 
Mysel, myself. 

N. 

NA, no, not, nor. 

Nae, no, not any. 

Naething, or naithing, nothing. 

Naig, a horse. 

Nane, none. 

Nappy, ale ; to be tipsy. 

Negleckit, neglected. 

Neuk, a nook. 

Niest, next. 

Nieve, the fis. 

Nievefu', handful. 

Niffer, an exchange; to exchange, to barter. 

Niger, a negro. 

Nine-tailed-cat, a hangman's whip. 

Nit, a nut. 

Norland, of or belonging to tne north. 

Notic't, noticed. 

Nowte, black cattle. 

O. 

O', of. 

Ochils, name of mountains. 
O haith, O faith ! an oath. 
Ony, or onie, any. 
Or, is often used for ere, before. 
Ora, or orra, supernumerary, tnat can be spared. 
O't, of it. 

Ourie, shivering ; drooping. 
Oursel, or oursels, ourselves. 
Outlers, cattle not housed. 
Owre, over ; too. 

Owre-hip, a way of fetching a blow with the 
hammer over the arm. 

P. 

PACK, intimate, familiar; twelve stone of 
wool. 

Painch, paunch. 

Paitrick, a partridge. 

Pang, to cram. 

Parle, speech. 

Parritch, oatmeal pudding, a well-known 
Scotch dish. 

Pat, did put ; a pot. 

Pattle, or pettle, a plough-staff. 

Paughty, proud, haughty. 

Pauky, or pawkie, cunning, sly. 

Pay't, paid ; beat. 

Pech, to fetch the breath short, as in an asth- 
ma. 

Pechan, the crop, the stomach. 

Peelin, peeling, the rind of fruit. 

Pet, a domesticated sheep, &c. 

Pettle, to cherish ; a plough-staff. 

Philabegs, short petticoats worn bv the High- 
landmen. . 



SARY. 255 

Phraise, fair speeches, flattery ; to flatter. 

Phraisin, flattery. 

Pibroch, Highland war music adapted to the 

bagpipe. 
Pickle, a small quantity. 
Pine, pain, uneasiness. 
Pit, to put. 

Placad, public proclamation. 
Plack, an old Scotch coin, the third part of a 

Scotch penny, twelve of which make an 

English penny. 
Plackless, pennyless, without money. 
Platie, diminutive of plate. 
Plew, or pleugh, a plough. 
Pliskie, a trick. 
Poind, to seize cattle or goods for rent, as the 

laws of Scotland allow. 
Poortith, poverty. 
Pou, to pull. 
Pouk, to pluck. 
Poussie, a hare, or cat. 
Pout, a poult, a chick. 
Pou't, did pull. 
Powthery, like powder. 
Pow, the head, tne skull. 
Pownie, a little horse. 
Powther, or pouther, powder. 
Preen, a pin. 
Prent, to print ; print. 
Prie, to taste. 
Prie'd, tasted. 
Prief, proof. 

Prig, to cheapen ; to dispute 
Priggin, cheapening. 
Primsie, demure, precise. 
Propone, to lay down, to propose. 
Provoses, provosts. 
Puddock-stool, a mushroom, fungus. 
Puiid, pound ; pounds. 
Pyle, — a pyle o' caff, a single grain of chaff. 



QUAT, to quit. 
Quak, to quake, 
(iuey, a cow from one to two years old. 

R. 

RAGWEED, the herb ragwort. 

Raible, to rattle nonsense. 

Rair, to roar. 

Raize, to madden, to inflame. 

Ram-feezl'd, fatigued ; overspread. 

Ram-stam, thoughtless, forward. 

Raploch, properly a coarse cloth ; but used 

as an adnoun for coarse. 
Rarely, excellently, very well 
Rash, a rush ; rash-buss, a bush of rushes, 
Ratton, a rat. 

Raucle, rash ; stout ; fearless. 
Raught, reached 

Raw, a row. • 

Rax, to stretch. 
Ream, cream ; to cream. 



*256 GLOi 

Reaming, brimful, frothing. 

Reave, rove. 

Reck, to heed. 

Rede, counsel ; to counsel. 

Red-wat-shod, walking in blood over the shoe- 
tops. 

Red-wud, stark mad. 

Ree, half drunk, fuddled. 

Reek, smoke. 

Reekin, smoking, 

Reekit, smoked ; smoky. 

Remead, remedy. 

Requite, requited. 

Rest, to stand restive. 

Restit, stood restive ; stunted ; withered. 

Restricked, restricted. 

Rew, to repent, to compassionate. 

Rief, reef, plenty. 

Rief randies, sturdy beggars. 

Rig, a ridge. 

Rigvviddie, rigwoodie, the rope or chain that 
crosses the saddle of a horse to support the 
spokes of a cart ; spare, withered, sapless. 

Rin, to run, to melt ; Rinnin, running. 

Rink, the course of the stones ; a term in curl- 
ing on ice. 

Rip, a handful of unthreshed corn. 

Riskit, made a noise like the tearing of roots. 

Rockin, spinning on the rock, or distaff. 

Rood, stands likewise for the plural roods. 

Roon, a shied, a border or selvage. 

Roose, to praise, to commend. 

Roosty, rusty. 

Roun', round, in the circle of neighbourhood. 

Roupet, hoarse, as with a cold. 

Routhie, plentiful. 

Row, to roll, to wrap. 

Row't, rolled, wrapped. 

Rowte, to low, to bellow. 

Routh, or routh, plenty. 

Rowtin, lowing, 

Rozet, rosin. 

Rung, a cudgel. 

Runkled, wrinkled. 

Runt, the stem of colewort or cabbage. 

Ruth, a woman's name ; the book so called ; 
sorrow. 

Ryke, to reach. 



SAE, so. 

Saft, soft. 

Sair, to serve -, a sore. 

Sairly, or sairlie, sorely. 

Sair't, served. 

Sark, a shirt ; a shift. 

Sarkit, provided in shirts. 

Saugh, the willow. 

Saul, soul. 

Saumont, salmon. 

Saunt, a saint. 

Saut, salt, adj. salt. 

Saw, to sow. 

Sawin, sowing, 



Scaith, to damage, to injure ; injury. 

Scar, a cliff. 

Scaud, to scald. 

Scauld, to scold. 

Scaur, apt to be scared, 

Scawl, a scold ; a termagant 

Scon, a cake of bread. 

Sconner, a loathing ; to loathe. 

Scraich, to scream as a hen, partridge, &c 

Screed, to tear ; a rent. 

Scrieve, to glide swiftly along. 

Scrievin, gleesomely ; swiftly. 

Scrimp, to scant. 

Scrimpet, did scant ; scanty. 

See'd, did see. 

Seizin, seizing. 

Sel, self; a body's sel, one's self alone. 

Sell't did sell. 

Sen', to send. 

Sen't, I, &c. sent, or did send it ; send it. 

Servan', servant. 

Settlin, settling ; to get a settlin, to be frignt- 

ed into quietness. 
Sets, sets off, goes away. 
Shachled, distorted ; shapeless. 
Shaird, a shred, a shard. 
Shangan, a stick cleft at one end for putting 

the tail of a dog, &c. into, by way of mis. 

chief, or to frighten him away. 
Shaver, a humorous wag ; a barber. 
Shaw, to show ; a small wood in a hollow. 
Sheen, bright, shining. 

Sheep-shank ; to think one's self nae sheep- 
shank, to be conceited. 
Sherra-moor, sheriff-moor, the famous battle 

fought in the rebellion, A.D. 1715. 
Sheugh, a ditch, a trench, a sluice. 
Shiel, a shed. 
Shill, shrill. 

Shog, a shock ; a push off at cue side 
Shool, a shovel. 
Shoon, shoes. 

Shore, to offer, to threaten. 
Shor'd, offered. 
Shouther, the shoulder. 
Shure, did shear, shore. 
Sic, such. 

Sicker, sure, steady. 
Sidelins, sidelong, slanting. 
Siller, silver; money. 
Simmer, summer. 
Sin, a son. 
Sin', since. 
Skaith, see scaith. 
Skellum, a worthless fellow. 
Skelp, to strike, to slap ; to walk with a smart 

tripping step ; a smart stroke. 
Skelpie-limmer, a reproachful term in female 

scolding, 
Skelpin, stepping, walking. 
Skiegh, or skeigh, proud, nice, highmettled. 
Skinklin, a small portion. 
Skirl, to shriek, to cry shrilly. 
Skirling, shrieking, crying. 
Skirl't, shrieked. [truth. 

Sklent, slant : to run aslant, to deviate from 



Sklented ran, or hit, in an oblique direction. 
Skouth, freedom to converse without restraint ; 

rarjge, scope. 
Skiiegh, a scream ; to scream. 

Skyrin, sliining ; making a great show. 
Skyte, force, very forcible motion. 
Slae, a sloe. 

Slade, did slide. 

Slap, a gate ; a breach in a fence. 

Slaver, saliva ; to emit saliva. 

Siaw, slow. 

Slee, sly; sleest, sliest. 

Sleekit, sleek ; sly. 

Sliddery, slippery. 

Slype, to fall over, as a wet furrow from the 
plough. 

Slypet, fell. 

Sma', small. 

Smeddum, dust, powder ; mettle, sense. 

Smiddy, a smithy. 

Smoor, to smother. 

Smoor'd, smothered. 

Smoutie, smutty, obscene, ugly. 

Smytrie, a numerous collection of small indi- 
viduals. 

Snapper, to stumble, a stumble. 

Snash, abuse, Billingsgate. 

Snaw, snow ; to snow. 

Snaw-broo, melted snow. 

Snawie, snowy. 

Sneck, snick, the latch of a door 

Sned, to lop, to cut off. 

Sneeshin, snuff. 

Sneeshin-mill, a snuff-box. 

Snell, bitter, biting. 

Snick-drawing, trick-contriving, crafty. 

£nirtle, to laugh restrain edly. 

Snood, a ribbon for binding the hair. 

Snool, one whose spirit is broken with oppres- 
sive slavery ; to submit tamely, to sneak. 

Snoove, to go smoothly and constantly ; to 
sneak. 

Snowk, to scent or snuff, as a dog, &c. 

Snowkit, scented, snuffed. 

Sonsie, having sweet, engaging looks ; lucky, 
jolly. 

Soom, to swim. 

Sooth, truth, a petty oath. 

Sough, a heavy sigh, a sound dying on the ear. 

Souple, flexible ; swift. 

Souter, a' shoemaker. 

Sowens, a dish made of oatmeal ; the seeds of 
oatmeal soured, &c. flummery. 

Sowp, a spoonful, a small quantity of any 
thing liquid. 

Sowth, to try over a tune with a low whistle. 

Sowther, solder ; to solder, to cement. 

Spae, to prophesy, to divine. 

Spaul, a limb. 

Spairge, to dash, to soil, as with mire. 

Spaviet, having the spavin. 

Spean, spane, to wean. 

Speat, or spate, a sweeping torrent, after rain 

or thaw. 
Speel, to climb. 

Spence, the country parlour. 



ARY. 257 

Spier, to ask, to inquire. 

Spier't, inquired. 

Splatter, a splutter, to splutter. 

Spleughan, a tobacco-pouch. 

Splore, a frolic ; a noise, riot 

Sprackle, sprachle, to clamber. 

Sprattle, to scramble. 

Spreckled, spotted, speckled. 

Spring, a quick air in music ; a Scottish reel. 

Sprit, a tough-rooted plant, something like 

rushes. 
Sprit tie, full of sprits. 
Spunk, fire, mettle ; wit. 
Spunkie, mettlesome, fiery ; will-o'wisp, or 

ignis fatuus. 
Spurtle, a stick, used in making oatmeal pud- 
ding or porridge. 

Squad, a crew, a party. 

Squatter, to flutter in water, as a wild duck. 

Squattle, to sprawl. 

Squeel, a scream, a screech ; to scream. 

Stacher, to stagger. 

Stack, a rick of corn, hay, &c. 

Staggie, the diminutive of stag. 

Stalwart, strong, stout. 

Stan, to stand ; stan't, did stand. 

Stane, a stone. 

Stang, an acute pain ; a twinge ; to sting. 

Stank, did stink ; a pool of standing water. 

Stap, stop. 

Stark, stout. 

Startle, to run as cattle stung by the gad-fly. 

Staumrel, a blockhead ; half-witted. 

Staw, did steal ; to surfeit. 

Stech, to cram the belly. 

Stechin, cramming. 

Steek, to shut ; a stitch. 

Steer, to molest ; to stir. 

Steeve, firm, compacted. 

Stell, a still. 

Sten, to rear as a horse. 

Sten't, reared. 

Stents, tribute ; dues of any kind. 

Stey, steep ; steyest, steepest. 

Stibble, stubble ; stibble-rig, the reaper in 
harvest who takes the lead. 

Stick an' stow, totally, altogether. 

Stile, a crutch ; to halt, to limp. 

Stimpart, the eighth part of a Winchester 
bushel. 

Stirk, a cow or bullock a year old. 

Stock, a plant or root of colewort, cabbage, 
&c. 

Stockin, a stocking; Throwing the stockin, 
when the bride and bridegroom are put into 
bed, and the candle out, the former throws 
a stocking at random among the company, 
and the person whom it strikes is the next 
that will be married. 

Stoiter, to stagger, to stammer. 

Stooked, made up in shocks as corn. 

Stoor, sounding hollow, strong, and hoarse. 

Stot, an ox. 

Stoup, or stowp, a kind of jug or dish with a 
handle. 

Stoure, dust, more particularly dust in motion 



258 GLO! 

Stowlins, by stealth. 

Stown, stolen. 

Btoyte, to stumble. 

Strack, did strike. 

Strae, straw ; to die a fair strae death, to die 

in bed. 
Straik, did strike. 
Straikit, stroked. 
Strappin, tall and handsome. 
Straught, straight, to straighten. 
Streek, stretched, tight ; to stretch. 
Striddle, to straddle. 
Stroan, to spout, to piss. 
Studdie, an anvil. 
Stumpie, diminutive of stump. 
Strunt, spirituous liquor of any kind ; to walk 

sturdily; huff, sullenness. 
Stuff, corn or pulse of any kind. 
Sturt, trouble ; to molest. 
Sturtin, frighted. 
Sucker, sugar. 
Sud, should. 
Sugh, the continued rushing noise of wind or 

water. 
Southron, southern; an old name for the 

English nation. 
Swaird, sward. 
Swall'd, swelled. 
Swank, stately, jolly. 
Swankie, or swanker, a tight strappin young 

fellow or girl. 
Swap, an exchange ; to barter. 
Swarf, to swoon ; a swoon. 
Swat, did sweat. 
Swatch, a sample. 
Swats, drink ; good ale. 
Sweaten, sweating. 
Sweer, lazy, averse ; dead-sweer, extremely 

averse. 
Swoor, swore, did swear. 
Swinge, to beat ; to whip. 
Swirl, a curve ; an eddying blast, or pool ; a 

knot in wood. 
Swirlie, knaggie, full of knots. 
Swith, get away. 
S wither, to hesitate in choice ; an irresolute 

wavering in choice. 
Syne, since, ago ; then. 

T. 

TACKETS, a kind of nails for driving into 

the heels of shoes. 
Tae, a toe ; three tae'd, having three prongs. 
Tairge, a target. 
Tak, to take ; takin, taking. 
Tamtallan, the name of a mountain. 
Tangle, a sea-weed. 
Tap, the top. 

Tapetless, heedless, foolish. 
Tarrow, to murmur at one's allowance. 
Tarrow't, murmured. 
Tarry-breeks, a sailor. 
Tauld, or tald, told. 

Taupie, a foolish, thoughtless young person. 
Tauted, or tautie, matted together ; spoken of 

hair or wool. 



Tawie, that allows itself peaceably to be hand- 
led ; spoken of a horse, cow, &c. 

Teat, a small quantity. 

Teen, to provoke , provocation. 

Tedding, spreading after the mower. 

Ten-hours bite, a slight feed to the horses 
while in the yoke, in the forenoon. 

Tent, a field-pulpit ; heed, caution ; to take 
heed ; to tend or herd Cattle. 

Tentie, heedful, cautious. 

Tentless, heedless. 

Teugh, tough. 

Thack, thatch ; thack an' rape, clothing neces- 
saries. 

Thae, these. 

Thairms, small guts ; fiddle-strings. 

Thankit, thanked. 

Theekit, thatched. 

Thegither, together. 

Themsel, themselves. 

Thick, intimate, familiar. 

Thieveless, cold, dry, spited ; spoken of a 
person's demeanour. 

Thir, these. 

Thirl, thrill. 

Thirled, thrilled, vibrated. 

Thole, to suffer, to endure. 

Thowe, a thaw ; to thaw. 

Thowless, slack, lazy. 

Thrang, throng ; a crowd. 

Thrapple, throat, windpipe. 

Thrave, twenty-four sheaves or two shocks of 
corn ; a considerable number. 

Thraw, to sprain, to twist ; to contradict. 

Thrawin, twisting, &c. 

Thrawn, sprained, twisted ; contradicted. 

Threap, to maintain by dint of assertion 

Threshin, thrashing. 

Threteen, thirteen. 

Thristle, thistle. 

Through, to go on with ; to make out. 

Throuther, pell-mell, confusedly. 

Thud, to make a loud intermittent noise. 

Thumpit, thumped. 

Thysel, thyself. 

Till't, to it. 

Tirnmer, timber. 

Tine, to lose ; tint, lost. 

Tinkler, a tinker. 

Tint the gate, lost the way. 

Tip, a ram. 

Tippence, twopence. 

Tirl, to make a slight noise j to uncover. 

Tirlin, uncovering. 

Tither, the other. 

Tittle, to whisper. 

Tittlin, whispering. 

Tocher, marriage portion. 

Tod, a fox. 

Toddle, to totter, like the walk of a child, 

Toddlin, tottering. 

Toom, empty, to empty. 

Toop, a ram. 

Toun, a hamlet ; a farm-house. 

Tout, the blast of a horn or trumpet ; to blow 
a horn, &c. 

Tow, a rope. 



GLOSSARY. 



259 



Toom, empty, to empty. 

Toop, a ram. 

Toun, a hamlet ; a farm-house. 

Tout, the blast of a horn or trumpet ; to blow 
a horn, &c. 

Tow, a rope. 

Towmond, a twelvemonth. 

Towzie, rough, shaggy. 

Toy, a very old fashion of female head-dress. 

Toyte, to totter like old age. 

Transmugrified, transmigrated, metamorphos- 
ed. 

Trashtrie, trash. 

Ttrews, trowsers. 

Trickie, full of tricks. 

Trig, spruce, neat. 

Trimly, excellently 

Trow, to believe. 

Trowth, truth, a petty oath. 

Tryste, an appointment ; a fair. 

Trysted, appointed ; To tryste, to make an ap- 
pointment. 

Try't, tried. 

Tug, raw hide, of which in old times plough- 
traces were frequently made. 

Tulzie, a quarrel; to ouarrel to fight. 

Twa, two. 

Twa-three, a few. 

'Twad, it would. 

Twal, twelve ; cwal-pennie worth, a small 
quantity, a penny-worth. 

N. B. One penny English is 12d Scotch. 

Twin, to part. 

Tyke, a dog. 

O. 

UNCO, strange, uncouth; very, very great, 

prodigious. 
Uncos, news. 
Unkenn'd, unknown. 
Unsicker, unsure, unsteady. 
Unskaith'd, undamaged, unhurt. 
Unweeting, unwittingly, unknowingly. 
Upo', upon. 
Urchin, a hedgehog. 

V. 

VAP'RIN, vapouring. 
Vera, very. 

Virl, a ring round a column, &c. 
Vittle, corn of all kinds, food. 

W. 

WA', wall ; wa's, walls. 

Wabster, a weaver. 

Wad, would ; to bet j a bet, a pledge. 

Wadna, would not. 

Wae, wo; sorrowful. 

aefu', woful, sorrowful, wailing. 
Waesucks I or waes me ! alas ! O the pity. 
Waft, the cross thread that goes from the 

shuttle through the web ; woof 
Wair, to lay out, to expend. 



Wale, choice ; to choose. 

Waled, chose, chosen. 

Walie, ample, large, jolly ; also an interjection 

of distress. 
Wame, the belly. 
Wamefu', a belly-full. 
Wanchancie, unlucky. 
Wanrestfu', restless. 
Wark, work. 

Wark-lume, a tool to work with. 
Warl, or warld, world. 
Warlock, a wizard. 

Warly, worldly, eager on amassing wealth. 
Warran, a warrant; to warrant. 
Warst, worst. 

Warstl'd or warsl'd, wrestled. 
Wastrie, prodigality. 
Wat, wet ; I wat, 1 wot, I know. 
Water-brose, brose made of mea. and water 
simply, without the addition of milk butter 
&c. 
Wattle, a twig, a wand. 
Wauble, to swing, to reel. 
Waught, a draught. 

Waukit, thickened as fullers do cloth. 
Waukrife, not apt to sleep. 
Waur, worse ; to worst. 
Waur't, worsted. 

Wean, or weanie, a child. 

Wearie, or weary ; many a weary body, many 
a different person. 

Weason, weasand. 

Weaving the stocking. See Stocking, p. 257. 

Wee, little ; Wee things, little ones ; Wee bit, 
a small matter. 

Weel, well ; Weelfare, welfare. 

Weet, rain, wetness. 

Weird, fate. 

We'se, we shall. 

Wha, who. 

Whaizle, to wheeze. 

Whalpit, whelped. 

Whang, a leathern string ; a piece of cheese, 
bread, &c. to give the strappado. 

Whare, where ; Whare'er, wherever. 

Wheep, to fly nimbly, jerk; penny-wheep, 
small beer. 

Whase, whose. 

Whatreck, nevertheless. 

Whid, the motion of a hare, running but not 
frighted ; a lie. 

Whiddin, running as a hare or cony. 

Whigmeleeries, whims, fancies, crotchets. 

Whingin, crying, complaining, fretting. 

Whirligigums, useless ornaments, trifling ap- 



Whissle, a whistle ; to whistle. 

Whisht, silence ; to hold one's whisht, to be 

silent. 
Whisk, to sweep, to lash. 
Whiskit, lashed. 

Whitter, a hearty draught of liquor. 
Whun-stane, a whin-stone. 
Whyles, whiles, sometimes. 
Wi', with. 
Wicht, wight, powerful, strong j inventive; 

of a superior genius. 



Wick, to 9trike a stone in an oblique direc- 
tion ; a term in curling. 

Wicker, willow (the smaller sort). 

Wiel, a small whirlpool. 

Wifie, a diminutive or endearing term for 
wife. 

Wilyart, bashful and reserved; avoiding 
society or appearing awkward in it, wild, 
strange, timid. 

Wimple, to meander. 

Wimpl't, meandered. 

Wimplin, waving, meandering. 

Win, to win, to winnow. 

Win't, winded as a bottom of yarn. 

Win', wind ; Win's, winds. 

Winna, will not. 

Winnock, a window. 

Winsome, hearty, vaunted, gay. 

Wintle, a staggering motion; to stagger, to 
reeL 

Winze, an oath. 

Wiss, to wish. 

Withoutten, without. 

Wizen'd, hide-bound, dried, shrunk. 

Wonner, a wonder ; a contemptuous appella- 
tion. 

Wons, dwells. 

Woo', wool. 

Woo, to court, to make love to. 

Woodie, a rope, more properly one made of 
withes or willows. 

Wooer-bab, the garter knotted below the knee 
with a couple of loops. 

Wordy, worthy. 

Worsec, worsted. 

Wow, an exclamation of pleasure or wonder. 



Wrack, to teaze, to vex. 

Wraith, a spirit, or ghost ; an apparition ex. 
actly like a living person, whose appearance 
is said to forbode the person's approaching 
death. 

Wrang, wrong; to wrong. 

Wreeth, a drifted heap of snow 

Wud, mad, distracted. 

Wumble, a wimble. 

Wyle, to beguile. 

Wyliecoat, a flannel vest. 

Wyte, blame ; to blame. 

Y. 

YAD, an old mare ; a worn out horse. 

Ye ; this pronoun is frequently used for thou. 

Yearns, longs much. 

Yearlings, born in the same year, coevals. 

Year is used both for singular and plural years. 

Yearn, earn, an eagle, an ospray. 

Yell, barren, that gives no milk. 

Yerk, to lash, to jerk. 

Yerkit, jerked, lashed 

Yestreen, yesternight 

Yett, a gate, such as is usually at the entrance 

into a farm-yard or field. 
Yill, ale. 
Yird, earth. 

Yokin, yoking; a bout. 
Yont, beyond. 
Yoursel, yourself. 
Yowe, a ewe. 

Yowie, diminutive of yowe. 
Yule Christmas. 



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